


How the Cards Fall

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Casino, Alternate Universe - Vegas, Anal Sex, Angst, Asshole Louis, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Gambler Zayn, Gambling, Harry Has Secrets, I'm Sorry, Las Vegas, Liam is barely there, Light Dom/sub, Lounge Singer Harry, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Zayn, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, Self-Destructive Behavior, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, guitarist niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8480836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: Zayn tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter if they party, if they have fun--as long as he remembers to wait until he comes down before he gambles.  
Soon though, Zayn can’t tell if he’s up or down, can’t tell if he’s high or low.  He feels a constant aching, a craving for something that goes beyond basic needs.  It goes beyond the pull of gambling, and the strip, and the sex, and the drugs.  He craves something which he knows he can never fully have.   But maybe that’s what makes him want it more. ♠♥♦♣Or a Las Vegas AU where Zayn gambles, Harry sings in a casino, and all that glitters isn't gold.





	1. Stand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KillerMermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerMermaid/gifts).



> Thank you to Nicki for being so lovely and giving me extra time to complete this when life got in the way. You're golden.  
> Thank you to Bri for the quick beta. You're a rockstar.  
> Thank you to Voordelol for the amazing Las Vegas AU prompt. I hope this somewhat lives up to your expectations even though it was a pinch-hit.
> 
> And finally, thank you to everyone who wants to read on. Please mind the tags and enjoy. xx
> 
> *Title is from "Illusion" by One Direction*
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://photobucket.com/)  
> 

 

Everyone loves a winner. 

There’s no better feeling than the high when you’re ahead, when the cards are falling your way and the chips are just fucking _there_ for the taking.  You’re a God.  No one can touch you.  

But then, with one unlucky deal, you’re back to being mortal again.  You fall from the sky, and no one catches you.  No one’s there to save you because you’re nothing.  You’re less than that even--you’re a _loser_.   

And everyone fucking hates a loser. 

Especially Zayn. 

He knows what it feels like to be a loser--he was born one.  His whole family were losers, always settling for less than they deserved.  His dad was a janitor in one of the casinos on the strip; his mother, a housekeeper in the adjoining hotel.  It wasn’t necessarily their jobs which reviled Zayn so much (although, admittedly, there were much easier ways to earn a buck).  No, it was the _way_ they approached life, as if they were unworthy of every paycheque, as if they were inferior to everyone and everything that walked into the casino.  They pretended they were living the “American Dream” just because they were living in America.  _That_ was what he despised. 

He made the mistake of telling his dad this once.  It was when his father had set up that interview with his boss when Zayn was sixteen.  Zayn refused to go when he found out taking the job would mean he’d have to leave school early.  He had plans.  He wanted to finish school, maybe take an engineering degree, or become a teacher, or anything besides follow in his dad’s footsteps. 

His father kicked him out of their crappy two-bedroom then, told him to come back when he stopped being selfish.  His mother said his father was only doing it because he cared.  They both said he’d return within the month.  

That was seven years ago. 

Now, Zayn only has one regret:  he never did go to college.  Oh, that and he never apologised to his father before he died of a heart attack on the job.  He’d had pneumonia and just gotten out of hospital.  Doniya said the doctors told him to rest.  His asshole boss made him come in anyway.   

Zayn wonders if he’d still feel this empty if he had managed to apologise to his dad before he kicked off.  That was life though.  You can’t win every hand. 

But you can try.  You can fucking try. 

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Gambling and drugs don’t mix.  Zayn knows this--or he should anyway.   

He wasn’t even going to come to the casinos tonight was the thing.  He planned on taking the night off, maybe seeing that busty showgirl who’d been all over him the other night, the one who had “no-strings-attached” written on every curve.  So he’d had a couple of blunts before dinner.  No big deal.   

But his plans fell through, and now he’s stuck.  All the other numbers in his little black book are too risky, and Zayn Malik isn’t one to take a high-risk bet.  Another call and they might think he wants more.  He doesn’t.   

He tries to stay in and watch some shit sci-fi film, but his mind is buzzing tonight in spite of the weed.  He needs action.  He needs the excitement of the gaming tables, of the slots going off every few minutes offering the _real_ American Dream--money. 

A short time later, he finds himself at the Oasis.  It’s not his favourite casino, but he hasn’t been there for a while.  That’s probably what swayed his decision, in fact.  He doesn’t like to become too familiar at any one place.

It’s much wiser to be a nomad in the middle of the neon desert.   

Zayn’s only been playing about twenty minutes when he decides to stop.  He’s made a few mistakes, and he doesn’t tolerate mistakes.  He can’t, not in his line of work.   

He quits before his losses begin to add up and wanders into the lounge.  There’s music playing, and he figures he’ll take a few minutes to let the weed wear off.  Maybe he’ll have a cup of coffee or something. 

Of course, that’s easier said than done.  It’s a clusterfuck in here.  Zayn’s tempted to leave, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go to unwind.  He’s not a VIP member at the Oasis or he’d go to the player’s lounge.  So with a sigh he weaves his way to the bar.  The line’s not as long as he first thought, most people are just milling around, seemingly waiting for the live show to begin.  Zayn could care less about the entertainment.  He isn’t here for that. 

The bartender’s got a square jaw, and he’s wearing a black uniform that shows off his athletic build.  Zayn would say he’s almost attractive if the dude wasn’t looking at him like he’d just committed some major sin by ordering a cup of black coffee.  The guy doesn’t get that this is Zayn’s _job_ , that you don’t fuck around with booze and drugs when you’re a gambler worth your salt.   

Most days Zayn remembers this.  Today, he’s forgotten.  But if he’s learned anything from gambling, it’s that you don’t dwell on your mistakes.  You just accept them as you would if you were dealt a bad card and then move the fuck on.  

So that’s what he does. 

He’s just thrown down a ten for the coffee when the lights dim.  He curses under his breath because he’s got zero fucking chance of finding a table now--even if he didn’t have a steaming hot mug in his hands.  He contemplates exiting the lounge, but then he sees an open bar stool right next to him and slides into it as a guitar riff peels out.  It takes him a second to place it, but then he’s got it--it’s Zeppelin. 

All of a sudden, he hears a yowl rip through the room, and he realises it’s coming from the stage.  When Zayn looks, the lead singer has his head down, long brown hair concealing his face.  He’s got one bejewelled hand wrapped around the mic stand, and the band behind him is rocking out like they’ve just feasted on a buffet of amphetamines. 

The lead singer whips his head back and starts belting out “Whole Lotta Love” to roars from the crowd.  He’s strutting around the small stage like he’s a Rock God bathed in a halo of red and violet lights.  A gaggle of girls near the stage lose their shit--not that Zayn can blame them.  The atmosphere’s as electric as the wails from the lead guitar.  Zayn watches the blonde kid on lead for a while.  He’s got a few stage tricks as well, and his backing vocals are solid.  Still, he doesn’t even compare to the frontman whose vocals are raw with sex and grit.   

The setlist reads like an essential collection of classic rock: “Satisfaction,” “Voodoo Child,” “American Woman,” and so on.  _“Come on baby, light my fire,”_ the singer purrs, and Zayn wonders if he’s witnessing the second coming of Jim Morrison.  He wouldn’t bet against it at any rate. 

Zayn’s got a funny feeling all of a sudden.  He decides to ditch the idea of staying until he sobers up.  He needs to get out of here, needs to get out of this place before he does something stupid.

Because God knows it wouldn’t be the first time.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

A couple of nights later Zayn returns to the Oasis.  He’s got unfinished business--in the casino.

The familiar palms and exotic décor welcome him as he enters the establishment.  He almost smiles as he’s carded; no one up front recognises him yet. 

That’s a good thing.

Zayn makes his way past a wall of slots and scopes the tables.  He finds a double-deck with a fast dealer and a fifty-dollar minimum in the sea of green.  The croupier and other players watch with interest as he takes his chips and sets them up in neat stacks in front of him.  He’s at first base, just where he wants to be.

Zayn watches the table as they start.  It’s filled with tourists who think they know how to gamble.  There’s a guy trying to impress his girl.  He pretends to know what he’s doing but Zayn can tell he’s got a basic strategy card in his pocket, probably bought from the casino gift shop when he arrived.  The dealer can tell, too, as they share a rare look.  The cards are completely legal and the punter clearly doesn’t know his arse from his elbow, so Zayn wonders why he doesn’t just keep the card out in the open.  It might improve his chances, but he wants to be a big shot instead.  It’ll cost him, but Zayn’s not here to offer advice.

He’s here to win.

The player at his left elbow has a bit of an ego as well.  He’s of the “never surrender” variety, and it’s killing his earlier winnings.  Again, Zayn’s not here to give advice.  He’s here to win.

Which is exactly what he does.

_Twenty-one…the hard way.  Six, eight, seven._

There are a few titters of congratulations as Zayn collects a nice return.  Big Shot doesn’t say anything, just tells his girl that he feels his luck’s gonna turn.  “I’m due, baby.  I can feel it.”  She sidles up to him, giggling and pawing at him with her fake magenta nails.  The dealer asks her to step back.

Zayn wants to gag.

 _“I feel lucky; I’m due.”_ Such thoughts are a fucking fallacy. You’ve got to take the emotion out of gambling.  Statistics and game theory don’t give a shit about how you _feel_.  Just because you get heads five times in a row doesn’t mean tails is more likely to come up, it’s still 50-50. Some people get that shit twisted. 

But not Zayn.

He's been good at keeping his emotions out of gambling--out of everything, in fact.  It’s easier that way.  His sister, whom he hasn’t spoken with in months, claims it’s because of Lauren.

Lauren.  The girl who broke his heart five years ago, the one who ran off with the out-of-town businessman right after they moved in together.

Doniya might be right, but Zayn’s grateful it happened.  It’s better to learn how the world works when you’re young.  He’s been lucky in that sense. 

But he can’t think about that now, not when the dealer’s got an ace showing.  He scans the table and sees a couple of players taking insurance.  They think the dealer’s got blackjack when Zayn knows the odds are he doesn’t.  By his count (and Zayn seldom slips up), there’s less than a twenty percent chance he does.  Since Zayn’s got twenty now, the worst case scenario is probably a push.

The dealer’s got a deuce and has to draw twice more. 

 _Twenty-three._   _Bust._

Zayn allows a small smile to creep onto his face. 

They switch dealers then.  Zayn’s fine with this.  He likes the new guy’s look.  He has an honest face.  They start again.  The dealer shuffles the decks, and Zayn erases the previous counts from his head.

_Blackjack._

It comes straight out of the gate.  He wasn’t even expecting that one but doesn’t collect much since he always bets conservatively on a negative deck.  He gets another one a few minutes later, after the deck’s more in his favour and he can afford to take a calculated risk.  A few hands later he’s got two grand riding on the eleven he’s holding.  He hesitates only a second before doubling down.  He knows the deck’s loaded with face cards.

 _Twenty-one._   It pays off big time.

Several people are starting to comment on his play now, asking him his “secret,” but Zayn doesn’t like the attention.  It’s not good to be noticed in his line of work.  Besides, there’s a guy with a discerning look and cool blue eyes who’s been watching him closely for a while now.  He’s wearing a silver suit jacket so Zayn figures he must be one of the casino floor managers who’ve been roaming around the tables like sharks.

It’s time to leave.

As he cashes out and immediately deposits his winnings, he can’t help thinking how great this place is.  Something about the Oasis must be lucky for him--not that he’s one to rely on luck of course.  Nevertheless, it’s got a good vibe and the conditions favour a card counter.  He wonders why he hasn’t come here more often.  He will from now on.

As he’s exiting, he sees a poster:  _Harry Styles Band.  10pm.  Oasis Lounge._

It’s the band he saw the other night.  He figures it won’t hurt to stay a few minutes.  He might as well celebrate with a drink.  It’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

He’s early this time.  That combined with the fact that it’s a weeknight and he’s able to get a table up front.  A tall, leggy waitress comes by and introduces herself.  Her eyes flit between his cheekbones and styled quiff to the black and gold Ferragamo on his wrist.  Her interest’s got him worried that he may have spent too much time on his appearance tonight.  He’s working and has to dress the part--nice but not too flashy.  He has to blend in, and that’s not always the easiest thing when you’ve been cursed with “exotic” good looks.  The Ferragamo on his wrist is the one luxury he allows himself.

He orders a whiskey and soda and chats with her to pass the time.  He asks about the band, and she tells him what he already knows--that the frontman has enough charisma to burn the house down.  She also shares that the band is one of the casino’s biggest draws, playing three shows a week.  Zayn’s not surprised.

Finally, the lights dim, and the band takes the stage.  The set’s different from last time but just as electric.  There’s a virile energy radiating off the stage.  It’s even more apparent now that Zayn’s nabbed a seat up close. 

Fuck, it feels like the guy’s singing right to him, that smouldering gaze burning into him as if they were the only two people in the room.  He tips back his drink, but it’s all ice.  He chews on an ice cube anyway.  He’s feeling overheated, like he’s forgotten how to breathe.  Perhaps it’s just the smoke-filled lounge. 

He settles his tab, thanks the waitress with the long legs and pretty smile, and leaves.  He’s in such a rush to get to the exit that he bumps into someone on the way out.  He offers a mumbled apology, and the guy seems overly polite in return.  Zayn thinks he looks vaguely familiar, and then it hits him.  It’s the casino worker from earlier.  He’s not wearing the silver jacket now, but Zayn would recognise that icy stare anywhere.

“Goodnight, Mr. Malik.”  His voice is sibilant and high-pitched.  It cuts through the noise like a knife.

Caught off-guard, Zayn sputters out a response.  It’s odd this guy knows his name.  Very odd.  Zayn’s concerned his reputation might have preceded him, and that’s not necessarily a good thing where gambling’s concerned.  He’s tried hard _not_ to make a name for himself on the strip, only winning as much as he needs. 

In fairness, he used to play for much more when he was younger, when he first learned the tricks of the trade. 

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now he only seeks to make a healthy income for himself.  He’s got a classy pad, a nice ride, and a few choice stocks.  Really, he has it made as long as he can continue to avoid being labelled an ‘Advantage Player.’  He doesn’t want to be blacklisted by one or more casinos because of careless recklessness.  That’s why he’s careful.

That’s also why he’s not exactly thrilled when this casino floor manager is greeting him by name after only a couple of recent visits to the Oasis.  It jeopardises his livelihood.  It jeopardises the life he built from nothing.  It potentially jeopardises everything.

As he pushes through the crowd without a backwards glance, he resolves to stay away from the Oasis--for the time being at least.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

He ends up staying away for three days.  It’s not long enough, but it’s an accomplishment he’s managed to hold out that long.  It’s like he’s being pulled to the Oasis, a magnetic flux connecting him to this exact spot.   He can’t explain it, but it’s there.

It turns out to be another good night.  Despite the newly-acquired chips weighing him down, Zayn’s still wary as he goes to cash out.  He knows he shouldn’t be coming back to the Oasis so soon, not after what happened last time. 

He plays devil’s advocate with himself.  A lot of casino workers along the strip know his name.  He likes that to an extent.  But this guy had caught on to him fast.  Moreover, Zayn suspected he was in charge of table games which made the guy more of a threat. 

He should leave, but he can’t.  Something’s stopping him.

His feet lead him into the lounge.  The band from before is playing; he knew that in advance.  Of course, that wasn’t the reason he chose to hit up the Oasis tonight.  That was pure coincidence.  It’s just an added bonus, that’s all.

He’s settled in at the table he had last time, the one on the left corner of the stage.  The same waitress with the pretty smile comes over to greet him.  He orders a whiskey and soda…again.  She brings the first one out quickly; the rest follow at a perfect rate, one that a chain-smoker would appreciate. 

The lights dim, and his pulse races with anticipation.  Zayn glances back up at the stage and two verdant irises stare back at him.  He can’t deny it anymore.  _Thi_ s is what he came here for. 

When the waitress comes around between songs, he scribbles a note on the back of the bill and hands her a fat tip.  He knows what’s it like to be in her place, can somewhat empathise at any rate even if he never worked in a joint quite like this.  When she sees the green, her eyes brighten instantaneously.  She reads the note and mutters a few choice words under her breath.  She’s pissed or disappointed.  Probably both.  To be fair, he probably gave her the wrong idea.

Zayn stands up.  He’s feeling a bit woozy, the alcohol hitting him hard as he tries to find his lost equilibrium.  He totters toward the back of the bar, heart thudding to the beat of the bass.  He’s barely seated before the buff bartender from the first night is asking him what he wants. 

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes still trained on the stage.  It’s the band’s final number.  The blonde kid on lead just announced as much.

“You gotta order something if you’re here, brother,” the guy behind the bar pushes.

Zayn gives him a withering look.  “Pretty sure I just drank half a bottle of Jameson, mate.”

The bartender shrugs.  “Thought you only ordered coffee.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes.  Of course he’s stuck with a fucking comedian.  “I’m buying a drink for someone; they’ll be here in a minute.”  The words have barely left his lips when the guitars come to a screeching halt and the band thanks the crowd.  The frontman leaps off the stage and brazenly struts towards the bar.

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” the bartender remarks as the boy with the green eyes claims the stool next to Zayn’s.  “Should’ve told me you were friends with Harry here.  Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine.”  He turns to the frontman and gives him a welcoming nod.  “Long Island, Harry?”

“Nah, make it a Hawaiian,” Harry replies, gaze lingering on Zayn.  “I feel like something special tonight.  Oh, and make it strong, Liam.”

The bartender winks at him.  “Got it, Harry.” 

Zayn goes to pay for the drink, but Liam slides the money back. 

“On the house.”

The bartender turns away to mix the cocktail and suddenly Zayn’s feeling shy and tongue-tied.  The boy in front of him is…well, _gorgeous._   Even the sweat glistening off Harry’s forehead and on his chest does nothing to deter his attractiveness.  He oozes sex appeal and confidence, and it’s fucking hot.  And the way he’s looking at Zayn with an almost smug look, elbow propped up on the counter as he strokes his chin with a finger--that’s hot, too.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Harry observes, stabbing the pineapple on the rim of his drink with a toothpick.  He flicks his tongue out first before taking a bite of the fruit.  Zayn’s sure he could watch this boy eat for hours.  “Do you talk at all actually?” Harry razzes with a glint in his eye.

“Sometimes there’s not much to say.”  Zayn loosens his jacket.  Despite the perennial heat of the desert, he’s seldom without one.  Las Vegas nights can be deceivingly chilly, and he’s generally cold anyways.  Besides, he likes wearing blazers and leather jackets.  Somewhere along the way, they’ve become his armour.

But right now, he wishes he’d left his jacket at home.  He’s burning up.

“Not much to say, huh?” Harry echoes, amusement written all over his face.  “So you just invite lads to join you and then give them the silent treatment?  That how it works?”  He’s got a twinkle in his eyes and in his smile.  Zayn didn’t even know that was possible.  “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to guess it?  I’m Harry, by the way, if you didn’t catch it already.”  The boy thrusts out his hand, and Zayn shakes it a beat late.

“Nice to meet you, er, Harry.”  He swallows thickly. 

“Well?” Harry chuckles, resting a boot on the top rung of the barstool.  Zayn hasn’t sat like that since he was twelve.  Even though Harry’s taller (by a couple of inches at least), he doesn’t look the least bit awkward. 

Harry clears his throat.  “So you gonna tell me your name or do I have to guess?”

“Oh, right…sorry.”  Five minutes ago, Zayn was wishing he had less alcohol in his system.  Now, as he’s watching Harry slurp his drink through a straw, he wishes for the exact opposite.  “It’s Zayn.”

Harry seems to approve.  Crazily, Zayn almost cares.  He shouldn’t of course, shouldn’t give a flying fuck about what this boy thinks of his name or anything else.

“Well, Zayn…,” he drawls, letting the words roll off his tongue.  Zayn’s heart begins to beat faster; his hands are clammy.  “I don’t usually offer this on a first meeting, but…did you want to come back to my dressing room?”

_Fuck yeah._

Zayn’s surprised to see that Harry’s still waiting for his answer.  He scrambles to find his voice, to sound as suave and cool as his usual _modus operandi_.  “Thought you’d never ask.”

Harry smirks before downing the rest of his mixed drink.  He slides the glass back to Liam who winks back at him again.  Then he turns to Zayn.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

Harry leads him back towards the stage area, telling him to mind the wires as they pass through the curtains on the side of the stage.  They’re quickly cleared by a security guard and then Harry’s off again, traipsing down a long narrow corridor.  Soon they arrive at a white door with the number 17 emblazoned on a black square.  _17 Black._   Roulette’s not Zayn’s thing, but he appreciates the James Bond reference anyway. 

The interior is not as lavish as Zayn was expecting.  In fact, it could have been the backroom of some seedy strip joint with the way the paint on the walls is screaming for a new coat and the out of date furniture is chipped and showing signs of wear.  It’s clean though--for the most part.  Not to his standard, maybe, but things seldom are.  There’s a sink, a vanity and lights (with a few burnt-out bulbs), a Persian carpet with bold greens and golds covering the floor, a tan sofa, a potted palm, and a few other plants in ornate vases.  He can smell incense burning--sandalwood maybe. 

The blonde guitarist is there as well.  Harry introduces him as Niall, but there’s not much more discussion than that.  The three of them stare at each other, and Zayn wracks his brain to think of a topic of conversation.  The thing is, his thoughts are a muddle and something about Harry’s demeanour is throwing him off.  He can’t read the tall, lanky boy--not yet anyway.  Niall’s become quite garrulous though.  He’s going on about something that happened in the audience during the show.  He has a thick accent--Irish maybe.  Harry smiles but seems distracted.  Niall picks up on it almost immediately.  He bows out of the room, and Zayn’s worrying about what to say to Harry when they’re alone.

As it turns out, he shouldn’t have worried.

The door’s barely closed before Harry’s got him pushed up against it, lips locked to his.  Zayn can still taste the pineapple and triple sec on Harry’s tongue, and it’s heavenly.  Harry’s grinding against him, and that’s heavenly, too.  It’s exactly what he fucking needs. 

Tentatively, Zayn drags his nails down Harry’s chest, and the other boy shudders. 

“What took you so long?” Harry breathes into his ear. 

“Hmm?”  Zayn can’t think.  It’s too hot in here, and he can’t think.  He’s intoxicated with the fit body pressing up against him and well…just plain intoxicated.  But it’s more than that.  So much more.  There’s the way the back of his neck tingles every time Harry exhales, the smell of sweat and incense, the knee slotted between his legs.  He wants to just lose himself in the lips of the boy in front of him, but Harry won’t let him. 

“You came to a couple of other shows,” Harry rasps, punctuating the statement with a nip at the skin below Zayn’s collar.  “I saw you in the crowd.  What took you so long?”

“What, do you usually get off with your ‘fans’ sooner than that?”

Harry’s all over his neck now, undoing the buttons of Zayn’s shirt with deft fingers.  “Sometimes.”

Zayn feels a tinge of something--jealousy maybe.  “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have sent the note,” he glowers, pushing against Harry’s chest a little.

Harry smirks and tilts his head.  “You’re cute.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry leans forward again, one hand sliding inside Zayn’s shirt.  He breathes into Zayn’s ear again, sending a new set of shivers down his spine.  “You’re cute because you think you’re the one who made the first move, babe--but you weren’t.”

Zayn swallows, closing his eyes.  “I wasn’t?”

“Nah, not even close.”

Zayn doesn’t ask any more questions after that.  Instead, he just loses himself in pineapple, and teeth, and soft skin, and sandalwood, and green eyes. 

Before Zayn leaves, Harry makes him promise he’ll come backstage after his next show. 

Zayn’s already counting the hours.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Split

 

Zayn’s a little late getting to the Oasis Lounge the next night.  He’d been killing it at the tables and the time had simply gotten away from him.  Luckily, he doesn’t have any problems getting backstage as Harry has already given his name to security.

He spots Niall first, and the guitarist greets Zayn as if they’re old pals.  Niall practically wheels him into a dressing room, _13 Black_.  Zayn surveys the room and can see it looks quite similar to Harry’s except this one is larger and lacks some of the character.  There’s no Persian rug, no plants, and not a hint of incense. 

“How’s it going, old buddy?”

“Uh…I’m good,” Zayn answers.  Niall looks positively delighted to see him, and the enthusiastic reception is throwing Zayn off balance a bit.  “H-how are you doing?”

“Ah!  Same old, same old.  You know how it is!”  Niall slaps him on the back before collapsing on the couch with a satisfied sigh. 

It’s bizarre.  Zayn’s not used to people being so friendly and familiar with him--especially after they’ve only just met.  Fuck, Zayn doesn’t even act this way with people he’s known for _years_.  “I’m, uh, supposed to meet Harry tonight.  You know if he’s around or--?”

“Yeah, he had to meet with someone, just called and told me,” Niall reports back.  “You might as well park your arse here a while because I don’t think he’s changed yet either, and let me tell you he went all out tonight.”

As Zayn sinks into a chair, he’s silently kicking himself for missing the show.  He’d love to have seen what “all out” means to Harry Styles. 

“Oh sweet Jesus!” Niall exclaims.  “I’m telling you nobody else could slap on that much eyeliner without looking like a right tosser.  I told him that, too.  You know what he said?”  Zayn shakes his head.  “The wanker told me he was single-handedly bringing back glam rock.  _Glam rock_.  Like, what the fuck?”  Niall slaps his knee and doubles over.  He coughs a few times as he tries to collect himself.  “I told him that some things should stay well and buried, you know what I mean?”

Zayn’s not really sure he _does_ know what Niall means.  Regardless, he enjoys listening to the Irishman’s lilting accent paired with that infectious laugh.  “Eyeliner, huh?  I wished I would’ve seen him now.”

“Well, you probably will, mate.  I’m telling you straight that there’s no bloody way he’ll be able to get it all off.”  Niall kicks his feet up on the coffee table.  “Anyway, I figured I’d keep you company in the meantime--you know, invite you into the band’s dressing room and all since I’m basically the band tonight.”

Zayn’s puzzled by this, and it must show on his face because Niall quickly elaborates.  “Yeah, the set’s just me and Harry tonight.  The lounge bills it as ‘unplugged,’” Niall tells him, doing the quote thing with his fingers.  “That’s a bit of bollocks because I’m playing an electric acoustic and there are amps of course but yeah.  It’s mostly soft rock and coffeehouse with an Americana/country edge.  You get the picture, I’m sure.” 

“That sounds cool.” 

Niall’s blue eyes light up in amusement.  “Yeah, I don’t really like country either,” he snickers, getting up from his place on the couch and ambling towards the mini fridge in the corner of the room.  “But even though I’m basically the manager of the band, Harry always gets his way.”  Niall offers him a can of beer but Zayn declines.  The guitarist shrugs before opening it for himself.  “The two of us are getting double the gigs now, and it’s sweet.  Best of all, we don’t have to worry about rehearsing with the other wankers, ha!” 

Zayn can tell he’s joking.  Niall looks like the type of guy who lives for being in a band.  Zayn would lay odds this kid’s been bar-hopping with each and every member of the band this week.  Maybe twice even. 

“Yeah, so as I was saying, the regulars seem to like the acoustic stuff.  It’s a nice change-up, you know.”

“Sorry I missed it then.”

“No worries, mate!”  Niall reaches over and pats him on the shoulder from where he’s standing.  Zayn flinches but luckily Niall doesn’t seem to notice.  “You can catch the next one.  I know I’ve got a schedule around here somewhere….”  He sets his beer can down and starts hunting around the room.  “It was tough convincing Harry at first,” Niall divulges as he rifles through a clump of papers he just pulled from a desk drawer.  They go flying everywhere and Zayn resists the urge to jump up and reorganise them.  He hates when things are out of order.  Absolutely loathes it. 

“Uh, need some help?”

“Nah, I just had it….”  Niall sifts through another stack, then checks in a few random folders in the tall, slate-grey file cabinet sitting in the corner.  Niall leaves half the drawers open after he’s checked them, and Zayn wants to shut them.  He _really_ wants to shut them.

But Zayn doesn’t have time to dwell on the state of the file cabinet as Niall has now moved back over to the desk again, throwing various objects left and right.  Zayn has to dodge a paper clip dispenser when it nearly nicks his shoulder.

“Niall, if it’s too much trouble--”

“No trouble at all, mate!” Niall chirps back merrily over his shoulder.  “So what was I saying?”

Zayn has to think a minute.  “Oh, yeah.  Something about Harry not wanting to do the acoustic set at first?”

“That’s right.  The idiot thinks his voice sounds shit without the full band.  Can you believe that?  He flat-out refused when the stage manager proposed the idea.  Rejected the next six offers as well.”

“That’s crazy,” Zayn murmurs, shaking his head.  “His voice is sick.  What did you tell him to change his mind?”

“Nothing,” Niall laughs drily, stopping his search to stare back at Zayn like he’s missing something.  He is.  “Listen, mate.  Trying to persuade Harry to do something he doesn’t want to do is like trying to piss in a bottle.  It’s fecking impossible and just when you think you’ve gone and done it, you end up smelling like wee.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to that.  Honestly, he’s still working it all out in his head when Niall starts hooting triumphantly like he’s just made a half-court shot at the buzzer.

“GOT IT!” 

Niall’s waves a sheet of paper in the air like a white flag before proudly sticking it in Zayn’s face.  When Zayn sees it’s the elusive schedule, he heaves a quiet sigh of relief.  He can’t take another minute of Niall tearing the room apart.  He thanks the other boy before tucking it away safely in his wallet. 

“You know,” Niall confides in a quieter tone, “you really _should_ come to an acoustic show.  If nothing else, you can tell Harry he’s got shit-for-brains if he thinks he sounds like crap.  Gives me chills, his voice.  Then again, I’ve known him so long I might be biased.” 

“Yeah, think I’ll definitely do that.”  Zayn slides his wallet in his back pocket again and settles back into his chair.  He didn’t think he’d be staying this long, but he’s not about to leave when he might be able to find out more about the enigmatic frontman.  “So how’d you guys meet, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all, mate.  Love talking about meself!” Niall acknowledges.  Zayn’s pretty sure the Irishman just loves talking in general.  Niall reaches for his beer on the table and Zayn notices several hardened callouses on the guy’s finger pads, tell-tale signs of his occupation.  Niall takes a sip, burps, and starts in as if he were telling a campfire story.  “So yeah, it all started in the year of our Lord, 2010.  I’d been itching to come to Vegas since I was a wee laddie, ever since I first saw that U2 music video--you know the one I mean, yeah?”

Zayn stares back at him blankly. 

“’I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For?’  _The Joshua Tree_?”  Niall shakes his head in disbelief as Zayn admits he vaguely knows the song.  “It was massive, man.  After I saw it, I knew I had to be here, had to give it a go, you know?  So I saved up some money, got a visa, and took the next plane.  Been living the dream ever since.”

“So when did you meet Harry then?”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Niall chuckles.  “I started busking in and around Fremont Street when I got here.  It was tough at first, I’ll admit.  Well, Harry used to pass by and listen to me when he was walking home from work--he was singing in some dive downtown at the time--really more of a strip joint, I think.”  Niall cracks his knuckles loudly.  “Anyway, we hit it off right away.  When he needed a guitarist for an audition at some club, he called me.  We’ve been working together ever since.”

“So you guys are close then?”

Niall’s face grows serious for once.  “Yeah, what ever Harry’s faults--and I’m not gonna say he’s perfect ‘cause he’s not--I’d take a bullet for that lad.  I mean that.”

Suddenly Zayn realises that he’s probably discovered more about Harry from Niall in fifteen minutes than he ever will from Harry himself.  To be fair, Harry and him hadn’t spent a whole lot of time talking the night before.  No, they’d been doing…other things. 

“Fuck me,” Niall exclaims, putting his guitar back in the case now.  The locks squeak a little as the guitarist thumbs them shut without looking.  “I’ve been chuntering on for ages here.  So tell me about you, Zayn.  You got a 9 to 5 or are you still in school?  You seem pretty well sorted--and well fit to boot, ha!”  Niall cracks up as if he’s just said the most amusing remark of all time.  “Well, Zayn?”

Zayn presses his lips into a thin line.  Niall seems like a good kid, but Zayn doesn’t know him well enough to trust him.  “I…uh…no, I don’t go to school or have a day job really.”  Niall’s giving him a strange look so he adds, “I have independent means I guess you’d say.”

“Independent means, eh?  No day job?” Niall whistles.  “You know if you’re a hooker, you can just say it.  I won’t judge you, mate, as long as you keep it clean and all.  I mean, speaking as Harry’s manager and best mate, I’d prefer Harry didn’t get any--”

“No!” Zayn bursts out.  He doesn’t want Niall to get the wrong idea.  “My family’s got money, and I’ve got investments I live off of, and um, yeah.  I’ve a lot of free time and all, so I gamble.  You know how it is.”

Niall winks at him.  “Yep, you wanna make sure it doesn’t become a problem though.  If you ever need someone to give you tips on cards, let me know.  I don’t usually play much because it’s not my thing, but I once won fifty bucks at Texas hold ’em.  I promise I’m not taking the piss either--you can ask Harry.”

Zayn has to hide a smile.  There’s something so endearing and likable about Niall.  He can see them becoming good friends--if he needed a friend, that is.

“So tell me, Niall,” Zayn begins, a smirk playing at his lips, “do you screen all of Harry’s potential suitors or am I just special?”

Niall jaw drops open, but then he doubles over with laughter.  There’s a knock at the door, and Niall struggles to contain himself as he opens it.  It turns out to be one of the band members with a question on their night off and Zayn tunes them out, pretending to be busy with his phone, after the necessary introductions are made. 

He thinks back to Niall’s question.  He almost feels guilty for not telling the kid what he really does.  Zayn wanted to shout that he definitely wasn’t born wealthy, that he had to start from nothing just as Niall did.

Really, it had started in the aftermath of when Lauren left him.  He’d been floundering around for months, flopping at friends’ houses and working various gigs to make ends meet while he decided what was next on the horizon.  He started bussing tables at some trendy Italian restaurant, then was given a chance to serve when one of the waiters was a no-show one night.  He smashed it almost instantly.  It was a complicated menu and changed regularly because of the restaurant’s temperamental Mediterranean chef.  Many trainee servers (and servers themselves) struggled with it but Zayn didn’t get what all the fuss was about.  Even as a busboy, he’d always have it down--along with the full drinks menu because Zayn never did anything half-assed.  That wasn’t his style. 

Zayn was fast.  He could reel off orders like any pro.  He never made mistakes either, and the staff used to joke that his memory was like a computer.  He could do everything but serve drinks.

He still wasn’t old enough for that.

He was nineteen and really, things could’ve been a whole lot worse.  That’s what he always told himself when he felt like he was getting nowhere.  But one day, a man strode into the restaurant who would alter his course forever, a man who was all style and flash and everything Zayn wanted from life.

But most importantly, he was a _winner_.  Zayn could smell it on him the moment they’d met, long before he moved in with the rich, older man.  Zayn hoped it would rub off on him if he stuck around.  It did.  

Georgios played blackjack.  He lived blackjack.  He breathed blackjack.  He showed Zayn his system and Zayn caught on fast.  Zayn’s memory was probably his greatest asset though.  Counting cards wasn’t all that different from cramming for an exam or remembering a dinner order for a twelve-top--both of which he had excelled at.

It would have been perfect except for one problem:  Zayn wasn’t twenty-one yet. 

But that was the second thing he learned from Georgios--you could get anything you wanted in Vegas for the right price.  This included a fake ID.  Zayn didn’t play himself, but it was enough to get him in some of the casinos where he could watch and learn from Georgios and other Advantage Players (or APs as they were generally known by).  Zayn hadn’t gone to college, but this was an education in itself.  It was an apprenticeship like no other.

Georgios also gave him _another_ type of education.  He taught the much younger boy what it felt like to be used--to be wanted for your body, for your youth, and not much else.  He looked at Zayn’s improvements as if he were a pet dog, congratulating his first successes with an almost patronising affection that Zayn began to loathe as the months passed. 

After a while, the merest touch from the Greek began to disgust him.  Before he would tolerate it, think about how he was winning at life by surrounding himself with other winners.  But later, it became increasingly difficult to not see the disparity in their ages and how it affected every part of their relationship.  It was hard to pretend not to care when people whispered things like “sugar baby,” phrases that made his skin crawl even if they were basically accurate.  Zayn suddenly recognised he was never attracted to Georgios physically and now that he was growing into manhood, he was no longer intellectually stimulated by him either.  When they fucked, Zayn made sure he didn’t have to look at the older man’s face.  It almost made it bearable.  _Almost._

Everything changed on his twenty-first birthday, however, when Georgios took him to the largest casino on the strip.  Zayn won big, won much more than Georgios ever had with his system.  Zayn was smarter, quicker, and less prone to fatigue.  Zayn looked into his older lover’s eyes at the end of the night, and he knew it was over--whatever they had.  It was blatantly clear that Georgios had lost interest in his protégé.

Zayn moved out the next week.  He’d won enough in a single night to pay a security deposit on an apartment in the luxury complex he’d been eying for months.  They parted amicably, and he never saw Georgios again (although he’d heard rumours that the Greek moved to Monte Carlo).

Now on his own, Zayn started gambling full-time.  Within months, he stuck exclusively to the blackjack tables.  Soon, he had accumulated enough to send some back to his family.  His mom returned his gift with a note:

 

_I can’t accept this. As you know, maisir is the work of Satan, Zayn. Doniya and I are praying for you.  ~Mom_

He should have known his family wouldn’t understand.  They never understood him at all, never even tried to.  He thought that things might be different after his father passed away, but they weren’t.  He was upset that his mother couldn’t see that he approached this as a job, that he had to have a full skillset to back it up. 

If the money from the casino was so evil, then why was it okay for his parents to accept paycheques from casino owners for all those years?  What difference did it make whether you worked as a janitor in a casino or earned an income from playing cards in one? 

Besides, as the saying goes, life was a game of chance.  At least with blackjack, he could use his talents to put the odds in his favour. 

He stopped calling and writing home completely after that.  Soon, there wasn’t even a ‘home’ to go back to, his mother having moved back to Carson City where she grew up.  He liked the idea of her living seven hours away from him.  It made him feel less guilty somehow.

“Zayn?”

His trip down memory lane is cut short as he hears Niall speak his name.  It takes him a second to take stock of where he is, but then he’s meeting the Irishman’s questioning gaze.  “Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

“Ooh, that’s never good,” Niall cracks, slapping him on the arm.  Again.  “Fancy that beer now?”

“No, I better get going,” Zayn tells him, rising to his feet.  “I feel like I ought to go find Harry.  He’s probably wondering if I stood him up or something.”

“Like anyone would stand up Harry,” Niall snorts.  Zayn has to admit the kid has a point. 

A few more parting words and Zayn’s hurrying down the corridor.  He stops dead in his tracks, however, when he sees a glimpse of silver.  It’s the casino floor supervisor from the other day.  The guy’s lounging in one of the doorways and chatting with someone inside a room.  Zayn curses under his breath, annoyed with his shit luck. 

He’s debating what to do when he suddenly realises it’s not just any dressing room the guy’s standing in front of--it’s Harry’s.  Zayn tiptoes closer.  The guy’s leaning in, talking to Harry in a forceful whisper.  He’s got a hand on the singer’s shoulder.  It’s impossible for Zayn to tell what they’re discussing, but he knows it’s definitely an impassioned conversation.

Zayn’s about to make a quick retreat when the blue-eyed serpent spots him.  The guy looks almost rattled at first but collects himself quickly.  “Mr. Malik, how remarkable to find you here of all places.  Are you lost because I’d be happy to show you where the blackjack tables are…?”

Zayn bites his lip.  He wants to say something snarky to this guy, wants to rip the smug, superior look off his face.  Instead, he counts to ten and swallows his pride.  “Nah, I’m good.  I was just coming to say hello to a friend.”

“Ah, Harold here?” he inquires smoothly, nodding towards the boy standing next to them, still dressed in full performance gear.  Zayn lets his eyes wander over Harry’s see-through shirt, tight leather pants, and leather choker.  Harry must have washed his face after the show because most of the eyeliner is washed off although a little lingers, giving Harry’s eyes even more definition. 

As if he needed it.

“Well,” the floor supervisor continues as Zayn tears his gaze away from the virile frontman, “it appears we have a mutual acquaintance then.  Pity I can’t stay and chat.  See you around, Mr. Malik.  _Bonne chance_.”  He smirks again and walks off like there’s a stick up his ass.  There probably is.

Zayn waits until he’s completely gone before he springs on Harry.  “What the fuck was that about?”

“Nothing,” Harry grunts, looking away.

“Nothing?  Do you know him?  It looked like he was bothering you?”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry insists.  “Louis is just someone I used to know, and…well, it doesn’t matter.”  He seems uncomfortable, though, and his eyes keep flicking down the hall.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Zayn makes a mental note of the casino worker’s name and tries again.  “Something the matter?”

“No questions,” Harry replies with a sudden earnestness.  “No strings; no questions--that’s the deal.  If this is gonna work, we have to agree on that.”

“Yeah, I’m good with that.”  Matter of fact, he’s _more_ than good with that.  It’s an ideal arrangement as far as Zayn’s concerned.  “My place?” he offers shakily.  He’s hoping he hasn’t read Harry wrong.  He doesn’t think he has.

Harry breaks into a cat-like smile, quashing all of Zayn’s fears.  “Thought you’d never ask.”

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“What year is it?” Harry inquires critically when Zayn points out his car in the parking garage.  Zayn’s used to most of his “dates” fawning all over his car (especially dudes) so this is new territory for him.

“It’s a ’77 Mustang Cobra,” he answers, opening the passenger door.  Harry makes no move to get in the car, however, and Zayn’s worried he might be having second thoughts.  As a matter of fact, he looks as if he’s just smelled cooked cabbage.  Zayn tries not to show it, but he’s more than impatient to get this boy in his bed.  His dick is still half-hard from last night’s make-out session that ended much sooner than he would have liked.

“That was a shit year,” Harry remarks, finally getting in the vehicle.

Zayn rolls his eyes as he slams the door and goes around to the driver’s side.  Normally, he’d be down someone’s throat for slagging his Cobra, but he tries to hold back as he places the key in the ignition.

But he just can’t.  He’s never been good with leaving things alone when he should.

“The body style was sick until they changed it in 1979,” he huffs.  “What are you even talking about?”

“I’m not talking about how it _looks_ ,” Harry replies, his eyes sweeping over Zayn like he’s judging _him_ instead of the car.  “It _looks_ great--dark, sexy, sleek lines, nice styling, clean….”  Harry reaches over and strokes the steering wheel lazily with one finger.  “But does it handle well?  Does it hug curves?  Does it deliver on _power_?”  Harry’s looking at Zayn’s crotch as he says the last word.

“Well, all I can say is I haven’t had any complaints,” he snips back, but at this point, Zayn’s not exactly sure what he’s defending.

“Good to know.”  Harry drags his gaze upward until their eyes meet.  Then, something snaps and the tension’s gone.  Harry gives him a dopey smile and pats the dashboard like it’s a golden retriever.  “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, man.  It’s all flash and no substance.  It has a shit reputation as muscle cars go.”

“No substance, huh?  This one’s got the super-charged 302 V8 engine.”

“Well, why the fuck didn’t you say so before?” Harry snorts.  Zayn bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile and starts the engine.

The drive seems to take longer than usual, but finally, they’re walking up the palm-lined entrance.  Zayn salutes the security guard and the guy greets him by name, giving him a discreet thumbs-up when he spies Harry one step behind. 

Zayn realises Harry hasn’t touched him since they made out in the lounge singer’s dressing room yesterday, and Zayn wonders if he’s beginning to get cold feet.  He hopes not.

“I don’t bottom,” Zayn informs Harry as he closes the door to his apartment, just in case he’s got the wrong idea.

“Fine by me.  Haven’t been fucked good and proper in a while now.”

Zayn’s breath catches in his throat, but he knows this is no time to lose whatever swagger he’s managed to convey up until now.  Zayn’s body is burning for Harry’s touch, Harry’s warmth, Harry’s closeness.  He can’t remember the last time he’s hungered for something or someone so much.

“Nice place you got,” Harry comments, taking in the industrial, utilitarian design with a waggle of his eyebrows.  

Zayn likes things simple, streamlined.  It’s easier to manage, easier to control everything better if there’s less clutter.  He remembers how his mother used to have tons of knick-knacks around their cramped apartment and how much it used to bother him.  Now, he’s got a few abstracts hanging on the walls, a couple of silk throws, and half a dozen jewel-coloured pillows to break up the otherwise monochromatic colour scheme.  The ruby reds and sapphire blues almost look out of place when juxtaposed with the slate and reclaimed wood backdrop, but the interior designer he hired assured him that it worked just before Zayn asked her if she wanted to check out his bedroom next.  (She did.) 

Everything’s in order.  Everything’s in its right place.  He likes his place this way. 

Except now, Harry’s unbuckling his belt and dropping it unceremoniously on the walnut hardwood.  He’s shedding the rest of his clothing items one by one, making a trail as he flings them on a side table, across a stool, over the island.

Zayn carefully hangs up his own jacket in the coat closet, then watches Harry undress, eyes raking over the other boy’s half-naked body.  “Keep it on,” Zayn growls when Harry goes to remove the black leather collar he’s wearing. 

Harry grins wide at this.  “Didn’t think you were the kinky type.”

“That okay with you?”

“More than fucking okay,” Harry simpers, letting his boxers drop to the floor.  The boy’s fucking massive--eight inches already, and he’s not even fully erect.  Of course, Zayn’s got nothing to be ashamed about.  And more importantly, he knows how to _use_ what God gave him--or so he’s been told on multiple occasions.

“Why don’t we take this to the bedroom?” Zayn suggests.  He feels so much more comfortable now that they’re in his domain.  He’s the king of the castle here.  He’s in control.  He saunters into his room, calmly unbuttons his shirt, and hangs it neatly over the back of a chair.  He sets his Ferragamo and ring in his jewellery box and sets his shoes on the appropriate shelf in the closet.

Only then does he turn his attention to his guest.  Harry is scouring Zayn’s newly-exposed skin, biting his lip as he strokes himself once.  He has zero shame as he stands there completely naked.  “Didn’t realise you had so many tatts.  You always wear too much clothing.”

“On the bed,” Zayn commands gruffly as he loosens his belt.  “Get on your knees.”

“You gonna open me up or…?”

“No.”

Harry’s face drops.  “Listen, I like it rough and all, but don’t tell me you’re one of those sick motherfuckers who--”

“No,” Zayn interrupts with a throaty chuckle, “you’re gonna do it.  You’re gonna open yourself up for me, and I’m…I’m gonna watch.”

The sound that escapes Harry’s lips then is positively obscene.  Zayn likes to be the one in power, the one calling the shots.  He’s happy Harry’s so eager to go along with that.  He hadn’t been sure what to expect at first honestly.

Zayn goes over to his bedside drawer and removes a condom packet and tube of lube.  He throws the latter on the queen-sized bed where Harry is perched on all fours.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to get started.  He’s got one finger in his pink hole before Zayn’s even stepped out of his trousers.  Zayn doesn’t mind though.  He likes watching Harry finger himself, writhing and twisting as he adds another finger and then another.  He’s searching for that spot, but it’s clear he can’t find it.  His long fingers aren’t quite long enough. 

There’s something irresistible about seeing the frontman on his knees, hair covering his face, collar around his neck. 

“Fuck, you look so good.”

Harry releases an animalistic grunt in response.  Even though Zayn loves watching the show, he can’t wait any longer to join in.

The mattress creaks as he kneels behind Harry.  The other boy mewls as he removes his fingers slowly, his tight hole puckering around the nothingness.  Zayn strokes himself a few times, then teases his tip along Harry’s perineum.  He does it again, skipping past Harry’s hole again and sliding his length between the globes of the boy’s buttocks. 

He can tell the boy beneath him can’t take much more so Zayn lines up at his entrance.  But before he can push in, Harry’s propelling his hips backwards, impaling himself on Zayn’s hardness.  It’s a fucking sight to see and Zayn has to hold himself back from pounding into the boy straight away.  Somehow, he manages to wait until Harry’s breathing evens out.  Only then does he start fucking into him at a steady pace, smooth and rhythmic, just how he likes it.

And apparently, just how Harry likes it, too.

Zayn’s so caught up in the way Harry’s tight heat feels wrapped around him that he’s barely conscious of the way his hands are creeping up to rest on the leather collar.  His fingertips curl under it, and Harry gasps a little.  Instantly, Zayn loosens his grip.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“No,” Harry interrupts, almost desperately.  “Do it again…and fuck me harder.”

Zayn almost comes at the thought, even has to stop momentarily and pull out.  He takes a second to breathe before he slips his tip back in, Harry’s pink hole accepting him so much more easily now.  Then, he does as Harry asked, grasping the collar with one hand, his finger only just fitting inside the tight circle of leather.  He rests his other hand on Harry’s hip, fingers pressing into soft, honey skin.    

“Ready?” he asks, steadying himself.  Harry gurgles a response and Zayn pushes in the rest of the way.  He begins thrusting, slow at first, but then increasingly faster as Harry’s hips push back against him.  Harry’s head is tilted back, and Zayn’s practically yanking on the collar now.

Then, an image flashes before him--Louis pressed against Harry in the doorway of his dressing room.  He remembers the way Harry brushed it off like it was nothing, but he saw, saw Louis as he leered at singer.

Suddenly, he feels a possessive anger light his bones.  His hips react first, hammering into the boy crouched on all fours before him.  He’s bottoming out with every other thrust, and Harry’s choking and mewling beneath him.  Zayn’s senses return when he sees how red the other boy’s face has become, and now he’s worried he’s let himself go too far. 

He stops cold, his length still buried inside of Harry, his grip loosened on the collar.  But then Harry’s grabbing at Zayn’s hand on his ass, pulling it to his erection.  Zayn wraps his hand around it automatically, and he can’t believe how hard Harry is, completely untouched.  It’s almost mind-blowing. 

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” Harry rasps out, voice wrecked to the point where Zayn’s not sure he’ll be able to sing tomorrow. 

Zayn can’t respond, but he doesn’t need to.  He just pounds into him again while clutching the collar like he’s riding a bucking bull.  He can feel Harry tighten around him suddenly, and it sends him over the edge.  A few shaky thrusts and he pulls out, releasing his hold on Harry’s neck and grasping his own length as he comes in the condom.  It seems to take forever before he goes limp, falling forward on the boy who is fucked-out and gasping beneath him.

With trembling fingers, he undoes the collar and turns Harry on his back.  He’s kissing every inch of him now:  nose, cheek, neck, chest, collarbone, hips….  “You alright, babe?  Tell me you’re alright.”  Zayn kisses him on the jaw, coaxing a response, a sign, anything to tell him he didn’t go too far.

Harry grunts lazily, pulling his arms up over his head and breathing deeply.  His chest expands a few times, and then he’s staring at Zayn with a teasing grin and fucked-out expression that makes Zayn want to flip Harry over on his back and drive into him again until he’s screaming Zayn’s name.  The only thing that’s stopping him is the fact he can barely feel anything below his waist right now. 

“That might be one of the best pure fucks I’ve ever had.  Just saying.”

Zayn smirks.  “Might be?”

“Need to give you something to work towards, don’t I?” Harry returns, a tangible promise of ‘next time’ hanging in the air.  Harry rolls over then to face the wall, and Zayn knows it’s the end of the conversation.  He’s fine with that.

When Zayn wakes up a few hours later, there’s an empty place on the bed next to him.  He reaches over and feels it’s still warm.  Zayn needs to take a piss, so he gets up and checks the apartment.  Everything’s in its right place.  Nothing’s missing.

Nothing except Harry, that is.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Surrender

 

Harry begins dropping by Zayn’s on a regular basis now.  It’s become such a thing that Zayn half wonders if he should give him a key, if they’ve reached that point in the relationship yet--or if they even have something which could be deemed a relationship.

Though he’d never say this aloud, he's confused about where he stands with Harry, what to call this thing they have.  They don’t go out (aside from the Oasis and his apartment).  They don’t eat together.  They don’t watch movies unless Harry happens to drop by when Zayn’s in the middle of one.  They don’t cuddle.  They don’t have deep, heartfelt conversations.

They fuck. 

It fits Zayn’s relationship goals so he should be content.  He really should be.  He doesn’t want a relationship.  He doesn’t want a commitment.  He doesn’t want to depend on someone--he’s learned his lesson there.  He wants something easy, something to fulfil his basic needs.  That’s all.

Still, he can’t stop himself from feeling a shade disappointed when he wakes up most mornings to find Harry gone when the singer was wailing Zayn’s name the night before.  It doesn’t seem fair somehow. 

Yes, Zayn doesn’t really know what to call this thing they have, and he doesn’t think Harry does either.

All he really knows is that, more often than not, his pillows smell like Harry and his mango-scented shampoo, and every time Zayn washes his linens he worries that they may never smell the same again. 

 

### ♠♥♦♣ 

 

When Zayn finally gets around to watching an acoustic set, the set Niall keeps telling him is a must-see, he isn’t disappointed.  It’s everything the Irishman said and more.  The stripped-down performance showcases the talents of both Harry and Niall, but Zayn can’t peel his eyes away from Harry.  He seems so vulnerable, so different to how he normally is--on-stage or off.

 

> _“Desperado,_
> 
> _Why don't you come to your senses?_
> 
> _B_ _een out ridin' fences, for so long now._
> 
> _Oh, you're a hard one,_
> 
> _But I know that you've got your reasons._
> 
> _These things that are pleasin' you_
> 
> _Can hurt you somehow._
> 
>  
> 
> _Don't you draw the queen of diamonds boy;_
> 
> _She'll beat you if she's able._
> 
> _You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet._
> 
> _But it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table,_
> 
> _But you only want the ones you can't get.”_

 

The lyrics resonate.  It’s not just Harry’s vocals and interpretation of the song--although that helps.  Zayn feels like he’s hearing the classic tune for the first time, like it has a special meaning just for him.

Maybe it does.  Maybe Harry is singing to him, making Zayn feel things he can’t put into words.  It’s a garble of syllables set to music, but he never wants it to end. 

He feels empty when the last bars fade.  He chases the emptiness with a shot of whiskey.  He knows he shouldn’t since he’s working tonight, but one shot won’t kill him.

Zayn was planning on heading to the tables as soon as the show ended, but he decides to see Harry first.  He wants to tell Harry how much he enjoyed the show.  He wants to share how much he loved hearing the softer side of Harry’s voice, the softer side of _Harry_.  It’s a side the singer shows to the public but not to him.  It’s backwards and mixed up…just like everything with them.

When Zayn gets backstage, it’s a much lighter mood.  Harry’s got a shit-eating grin on his face as he argues with Niall about how Snow Patrol is the greatest Irish band of all time.  As Zayn walks up, Niall’s telling Harry he ought to have his head checked.  The two friends exchange some banter, and Zayn almost feels like he’s intruding.  Harry’s never that way with him.  He’s never so free and open.  Zayn wonders if it’s just something Niall brings out in Harry or if it’s something deeper than that.

Zayn’s not really jealous; he’s just in awe.  He wishes Harry would allow him to see that side of him as well. 

He can’t really complain though.  The moment Niall departs, Harry pounces on him like a cat, lips glued to Zayn’s the first chance he gets.

Zayn knows this is one side of Harry Niall _never_ gets to see.

Zayn deepens the kiss, and his tongue touches something foreign.  It feels like a pill and Harry’s passing it into his mouth now.  Zayn’s about to spit it out, but then Harry’s kissing him hard.  His mouth is covered by the younger boy’s.  Zayn’s eyes are wide as he breathes through his nose.  Soon, their saliva dissolves the pill until there’s nothing left except a bitter aftertaste. 

Harry’s telling Zayn how it will make everything brighter, bigger, greater.  It does.  It also makes Zayn feel nauseated. 

Zayn goes to play anyway.  He loses.  He’s forgotten his cardinal rule, that drugs and gambling don’t mix.  The pill makes him think he’s invincible, though, like a teenager with new wheels.  He isn’t apparently.  No big deal.  He’s got his rent covered for the next six months, maybe more.  He never takes more money than he can afford to lose.  He knows sometimes the cards don’t go your way--even when you’re not high.

He hears a voice behind him as he walks away from the table.  “What’s that they say, Mr. Malik?  ‘Unlucky in cards, lucky in love?’”  Louis chuckles.

“Something like that,” Zayn mutters, less than amused.  “Just a bad night.  It’ll turn around.”

“I’m _sure_ it will, Mr. Malik.  Good night and _bonne chance_.”  He grins and slithers towards a poker table, no doubt aiming to harass some other miserable soul.  Zayn’s fuming although he doesn’t really have a reason to be angry.  After all, Louis is right--he _has_ been unlucky in cards lately.

But that’s going to change.  He knows it will.  It has to.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

But it doesn’t somehow.  The next time he goes to the Oasis, Harry insists on going with him as a good luck charm.  He tries to focus on counting, but he can’t.  Harry’s distracting him with a question, or a compliment, or a grip on his arm or waist that makes Zayn think of anything but the count.  At the same time, he doesn’t want to tell Harry that he’s putting him off his game.  It sounds rude (even if it’s true).  So instead, he just grins and bears it, placing the minimum at low bet tables to assuage his losses. 

It happens again the next time they go.  Harry’s asking why this card is turned sideways, and why those cards are split, and what a side bet is even though Zayn’s pretty sure he’s explained all of this a few times now.  He suggests Harry get a drink, maybe go play the slots or something.  Zayn’s vying for even a few minutes where he can concentrate on his game, where he can _think_. 

That pans out to be even more of a bust.  Harry sings at the Oasis, for crying out loud, so Zayn should have seen it coming.  Harry’s a fucking celebrity here.  Even if he wasn’t, he’d be bound to attract attention. 

Zayn watches as the long-haired boy sashays through the casino in too-tight jeans and a shirt unbuttoned to his Goddamn navel.  It’s even more fucking distracting than Harry’s endless chatter and questions when he’s stood next to Zayn at the table.  Guys and girls alike are leering at his lover, swarming around him like literal moths to a flame.  A possessive streak Zayn didn’t even know he had wells up inside of him.  It’s stupid, perhaps, because they haven’t made any promises to each other.  They’re fucking, that’s all.  No strings attached--the way Zayn’s always wanted it.  Still, Zayn can’t help but glare at the pricks trying to chat up the singe or the thots with their hands all over Harry’s arms and chest. 

And before he knows it, he’s down a grand.  A fucking _grand._

He doesn’t even attempt to win it back.  He just finds Harry and drags him off the casino floor before someone gets the wrong idea.  Or before Zayn smashes someone’s teeth in.

The next day, Zayn vows to go to another casino.  He does, managing to make a measly sum to stay afloat for the present without borrowing from his savings.  He should’ve come away with double or triple that amount, but his concentration was off.  Again.  Truthfully, he’s lucky to be in the black.  It could’ve been another night of losses.

As he passes the Bellagio, he sees several happy couples dancing around the massive fountains.  There’s a Sinatra song playing, one that’s rife with romance and promise.  He wonders why he’s barely noticed the beauty of this before, why he rarely notices how beautiful and exciting anything is in Vegas.  It’s like he’s become immune to all of it.

But he can’t get the image out of his head now, the fantasy of Harry and him alongside those young, carefree couples.  He can’t refrain from imagining the two of them holding hands or sharing a kiss that isn’t rushed and needy.  

That’s when he knows he’s well and truly fucked.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“You wanna go out?” Zayn asks, oozing indifference as he lounges on the dressing room couch and watches Harry comes down from the quiet buzz of a matinee performance.  It’s early still.  A few shards of daylight poke through the blinds of the window causing Zayn to shield his eyes with the back of his hand.  He hopes Harry doesn’t catch the way it’s trembling just the slightest bit. 

But of course he does.

“You need a hit?” Harry questions, mistaking Zayn’s nervousness for something else.  He heads towards the large fern growing out of a pot with a black and cream Pueblo-like design.  Zayn swears that Harry’s the only dumb fuck who would keep pot in a fucking pot.

“No,” Zayn answers reluctantly as Harry’s long fingers disturb the rest of the delicate leaves.  There’s a rustling that makes Zayn’s skin crawl with a Pavlovian-like itch.  Despite this, he doesn’t really want to get high.  Zayn doesn’t want anything--nothing concrete anyway.

He’s shaking because he’s nervous, because he doesn’t want to screw this up.  He repeats his question, feigning the same casualness as before.  “So what do you think?  Wanna go out?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow together as he buttons up a clean shirt, starting from the bottom.  “Your place, you mean?”

“No, I mean _out_.  Like dinner or something.” 

Harry’s unsure or upset.  Zayn can’t tell.  He can’t read Harry all that well to begin with.  He struggles with interpreting the mixed signals constantly being hurled at him. 

“Zayn, I thought I made it clear….”

Zayn doesn’t listen to the rest.  He just tunes Harry out and tries to keep a poker face.  He’s had enough practice keeping his face a blank slate for his “job” so it should be second nature to him now. 

But as he watches the words pour in a steady stream from that beautiful, heart-shaped mouth, he feels like he’s being crushed, poleaxed, steamrolled.  Yeah, Zayn understood the rules of the game before he played his first move, before giving the waitress that note for Harry.  Even so, he feels unsatisfied.  There’s a gnawing inside him that wants more than Harry’s willing to give.  He’s the master of kerbing his appetite, his gambling losses, his cigarette intake, his spending; but he can’t kerb this ache.  He wants _more._   It hasn’t happened for a long time, not since Lauren. 

A cold sweat comes over him as he realises it’s never happened before--not like this.

“You’re not listening are you?” Harry grumbles, the slightest hint of annoyance in those dark jades.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip and folds his arms across his chest.  It’s not a defensive move so much as a protective one.  “Does it matter?”  His words sound dead.  There’s good reason for that.

Harry exhales loudly and rubs the back of his neck.  “Yeah, fine.  We can go out.”  

It’s a compromise; an attempt to placate an ornery child, but Zayn will take it if it means he’ll get his way.  It’s still a win even if it’s a begrudging one.  Nevertheless, he doesn’t want to show his hand just yet so he attempts to play it cool.  “You don’t have to, I mean, if you--”

“Well do you or don’t you want to go out?”

Zayn blinks.  “’Course I do.  I suggested it.”

Harry gives a tired smile.  “Then stop trying to talk me out of it, will you?  What did you have in mind then?”

Zayn rakes a hand through his hair and tries to think of something fast.  He can see the two of them at the top of the Stratosphere or the Eiffel Tower at Paris--if he were into heights (which he’s not).  He can envision them in one of the Venetian’s Gondolas or in front of the Bellagio’s fountains like he imagined the other night.  They could see a show, wonders if he should suggest Boys II Men or one of the _Cirque de Soleil_ ones.  Harry seems like he might like that, and Zayn’s been meaning to see the Michael Jackson one for longer than he can remember.  Or maybe that’s too much.  Maybe they should just hang at Planet Hollywood or something.  They’d grab a bite there and check out the shops.  He could even buy Harry a shirt that isn’t sheer or jeans that aren’t so damn tight Zayn has to worry about every other guy jumping him--

“Well?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Zayn mumbles.  There are too many choices.  Even so, they’re all wrong.  He’s tired of the glitz, the neon wilderness he can’t escape.  He wants to see the stripped-down version of Harry, the one who sang “Desperado” like he meant it.  Zayn wants to see the boy behind the glamour and smoothed edges of a Vegas lounge show.

Then it hits him.  “How about a drive or something?  Let’s get away from all this for a night, yeah?”

“You planning on kidnapping me, babe?” Harry chaffs, tracing his bottom lip with one of his heavily-ringed fingers.  “Dump my body in the desert somewhere?”

Zayn bites back a smile.  “How’d you know?”

“Always know what you’re thinking,” Harry winks, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. 

“Wish I could say the same thing.”

“Careful what you wish for, babe.”  Harry’s eyes go distant, and Zayn can tell there’s a greater meaning behind his words.  But as usual, he’s not certain what that is.  Harry slides on a jacket--one of Zayn’s he must have taken from the apartment the last time he stayed over.  “Anyway, if you want to drive, I can navigate.  There’s this diner not too far from Red Rock.  It’s retro, makes you feel like you’ve gone back in time.  The food’s more than decent as well.”

“Sure, that sound’s perfect.”  Then Zayn’s hooking his hand around Harry’s wrist, leading him out the back door of the club and towards his car before the other boy has a chance to change his mind. 

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Harry wasn’t kidding when he described the place.  It’s almost eerie the way it resembles a true 1950’s diner, complete with the black-and-white checkered floor, retro Coca-Cola signs, and chrome stools lined up against a long counter.  There’s a guy with a white cap behind it, and he waves to them as he fills an order.  The winged booths are two-toned--cream and an aqua blue that reminds him of a ‘57 Chevy he fell in love with at a car show when he was ten.

Harry heads straight for one of these, grabbing two plastic menus from a stack behind the napkin dispenser--also chrome--as soon as he sits down.

Harry merely glances at his before stowing it back in place.  “You should get a chocolate malt,” he recommends.  “They’re amazing.  Well, I’ve only tried the vanilla malt since I’m not exactly a chocolate-lover, but my sister swears by them.”

Zayn glances over his menu at the boy on the other side of the booth.  He’s pretty sure Harry’s just revealed more about himself in that one statement than he has since Zayn’s met him.  It’s dumb, but Zayn feels a wave of electricity thrill through him anyway.  “You have a sister?” 

Harry clams up immediately.  “No questions, remember?”

Zayn bites his lip and tries to hide his frustration.  “You literally just told me that.  Can’t we suspend the rules for like one night?”

“Fine, but nothing too personal still.  Okay?”

There’s a ‘why’ on Zayn’s lips, but he swallows it down.  “Yeah, so you were saying how you’ve eaten here with your sister then?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You been here recently?” 

Harry gives a non-committal shrug and Zayn has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.  It’s like pulling teeth trying to have a normal conversation with Harry.  Zayn always thought of himself as a guarded and private person, but Harry makes him look like an open book.  He’s built a ten-foot wall around himself, and Zayn doesn’t even know how to begin to scale it.

He makes another tempt.  “So how’d you find out about this place?”

“Used to drive up here with my family when I was a kid.”  Harry’s eyes dart away, searching for a waiter perhaps.

“Didn’t realise you grew up around here.”

Harry stares back at him hard.  “Why?  Where’d you think I was from?”

“I mean, I didn’t think you were a local like me because you never mentioned it,” Zayn recovers, pulling at the collar of his Henley.  “So when was your last visit?”

“Don’t remember,” Harry mumbles. 

Zayn smirks good-humouredly.  “That because you’ve brought so many guys up here or--?”

“Nah, never brought anyone up here--besides my sister, that is.”

“She older or younger?”

Harry hesitates a moment as if he’s deciding whether the question will pass or not.  Evidently, it does.  “Older.”

“I’ve an older sister as well,” Zayn shares.  “Don’t talk to her much though.”

“You should.  Family’s important.”

For some reason, Zayn feels like he’s offended the other boy.  He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, however, as a young kid approaches to take their order.  Harry goes first, ordering a salad, veggie burger, and cherry-vanilla soda.  Zayn gets a burger and fries without consulting the menu.  He figures he can’t go wrong with that.

The kid pushes his glasses up his nose and scribbles a few things on his notepad.  “Anything else?”

Zayn clears his throat.  “Actually, I’ll take a chocolate malt as well.”

The waiter seems to approve because he nods vigorously as he jots it down.  “Good choice there, buddy.  We’ve got the best chocolate malts in town.”

“So I’ve heard,” Zayn answers.  His heart skips a beat as he looks across the table at the boy smiling back at him. 

Harry’s face falls a short time later when the waiter brings their drink order out in what Zayn thinks might be record time.  (Or maybe he’s just used to waiting so damn long anywhere along the strip.)

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry grumbles like a toddler, sticking a straw into the tall fizzy drink and swishing it around.  He’s staring glumly at the whipped cream like it’s huge fucking disappointment.  Zayn checks out his own malt and suddenly he gets it.  Carefully, he pinches the stem of his cherry with two fingers and plops it on Harry’s cloud of whipped cream. 

Harry’s face immediately lightens with puppy-like joy.  “Thought you said you could never tell what I was thinking?” he jibes.

“Guess I’m a fast learner.”

“That’s too bad,” Harry says enigmatically.  “You’d be better off if you couldn’t read my thoughts.”

Zayn’s not sure how to respond so he takes a sip of his malt.  It’s like an instant pick-me-up, an explosion of decadent chocolate and rich cream.  The malted flavour’s prominent but not too strong.  No, it’s just right.  It’s perfect and Zayn’s tempted to ask it where it’s been all of his life, but then he notices Harry’s watching him closely.

“Good, huh?”

“Yeah, you were fucking bang on,” he tells Harry before slurping down more of the chocolatey goodness.  “Best Goddamn thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“Told you,” Harry chuckles.  He picks up his cherry and begins licking it clean with that long, pink tongue of his. 

The sight makes Zayn squirm, and it doesn’t help that Harry’s gaze never leaves his the entire time.  Zayn hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and he’s starving.  Even so, he almost wants to say ‘fuck it’ and split before his pants do.

Harry must be pure evil because he just throws his head back and starts cackling.  The brunette boy knows the effect he has on him.  Zayn feels a blush rising to his cheeks.

“You’re too easy,” Harry manages after he calms down, wiping the corner of his eyes with a napkin. 

“Only for you, Harry.”  Zayn means it, too.  He’s looking into those vivid jades across the table, and he can’t help but think he’s falling.  Maybe he’s already gone, in fact.

The waiter brings their food then, and he’s relieved.  It stops him from saying something stupid…for now anyways.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Harry fiddles with the knobs on Zayn’s radio as they pull up to the lookout point.  It was only a short drive from the diner, but Zayn figures Harry must have changed the station fifty times since then, all the while giving Zayn directions on where to turn next.  Harry seems oddly agitated as he finally gives up on his quest for the perfect song. 

Zayn kills the engine and everything goes quiet.  _Too_ quiet. 

Soon his ears adjust, and he can hear a faint rustling sound and the distant caw of an animal he couldn’t name if his life depended on it.  

“No one ever comes here,” Harry says at last.  Zayn looks around and the place is completely deserted.  They had passed a car on the way up, but that was it since they left the diner.

“Good,” Zayn muses, turning off his headlights with a click that makes Harry jump.  “That means I’ll be able to carry out my plan.”

Zayn hears Harry’s throat hitch in the darkness.  “Which plan is that, babe?”

“The one where I kidnap you, remember?” Zayn teases, tongue slipping between his teeth.  All of a sudden, the clouds shift, revealing the amber moon overhead through the Mustang’s T-tops.  Zayn has to look away for a moment when he sees how it reflects in the other boy’s eyes.  He drums his fingers on the steering wheel instead.  “By the way, thanks for navigating us to the perfect spot.  It saves me time from having to google ‘best places to dump the body of a sexy lounge singer in the Mojave Desert.’”

Harry snorts at that and punches him in the arm.  “Silly me.  I was thinking you had something else in mind.”

“Like what?” Zayn asks smoothly.  He feels…relaxed.  It’s like they’ve switched roles--Harry’s the nervous one now, and Zayn’s as cool as a fucking cucumber.

“Like…this.”  Harry leans over the centre console, and again, he hesitates.  Zayn can hear it in each shaky breath, can spot it in the way his pupils are suddenly dilated.  When Zayn can’t stand it any longer, he closes the remaining distance between them, allowing his lips to ghost over the younger boy’s.  They hover there--expectant, unmoving. 

Despite the heat, goose pimples ripple across his skin.  He wonders what Harry’s waiting for, what they’re _both_ waiting for.  Zayn’s hand creeps around the back of Harry’s neck and then suddenly, warm wet lips are yielding to him. 

It’s soft at first, their tongues exploring the other’s mouth as if they’ve never done this before.  It’s slow, relaxed--nothing like them.  Zayn’s conscience the whole time as if he’s trying to remember it all--every touch, every sensation building within him. 

Normally, it’s not like this at all.  They’ll share a hurried, sloppy kiss before Harry’s on his knees, sucking him off or mewling beneath him as Zayn fucks into him. 

Zayn releases a moan at the thought, and Harry’s kissing him harder now, but it’s still intimate.  It’s everything he’s ever needed as cherry mixes with chocolate.  He can’t see how he’ll ever get enough. 

Harry must have had the same thought.  Somehow, he’s crawled into Zayn’s lap without once breaking the kiss.  Harry’s grinding against him better than any real or imagined lap dance Zayn’s ever had.  He can feel himself getting stiffer by the moment as he grabs Harry’s ass and slides down a few inches in his seat so Harry’s grinding directly on his dick. 

All of a sudden, Harry yelps and clutches his back where Zayn’s guessing the steering wheel just hit him.  Zayn’s knee connects with the shift a moment later, and they’re half-giggling, half-panting as they nurse their respective injuries.  And just like that, the moment’s lost.

“This ain’t gonna work,” Harry relents, still chuckling and massaging his sore back as he gingerly moves back into the passenger seat.  “Maybe you should ride me instead,” Harry suggests with a smirk, patting his lap.  Zayn can’t help but notice the bulge straining against the zipper.  It can’t be comfortable. 

“I don’t bottom,” Zayn reminds him.  It’s automatic.

Harry rolls his eyes.  “I know.  You like control.  But you could have as much control as you want sitting on my dick, just saying.”  Harry winks at him suggestively.  “You could park that rear end on this stick shift and put it on cruise control any time you want, babe.”

“Oh my God, Harry,” Zayn groans.  “Those car analogies…you just need to stop with them.”

“What?” Harry laughs cheekily.  He’s all dimples, and Zayn wants nothing more than to kiss him again.  “I was joking, I swear.”

A comfortable silence descends on them then as they look out onto the moonlit landscape.  After a while, Harry’s hand creeps up on the console to rest on his.  It’s a simple gesture, a small touch, but it’s so much more at the time.  It’s simple, and intimate, and gentle.  And again, Zayn reflects how it’s so not _them._  

There’s so much Zayn wants to say, but he’s afraid he’ll chase away this moment.  “So…how’d you find out about this place?  It’s so off the beaten path and everything.  I’d reckon a place this beautiful would be swarmed with tourists or whatever.”

“No, not usually although sometimes you see couples come up here, of course.  My dad said he used to take my mother ‘necking’ here when they were high school sweethearts.”

“That’s sweet.”  It might just be his imagination, but he thinks Harry squeezes his hand a little.  “Hope they had a better time of it than we did,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Harry snorts.  “That was an epic fail, man.”

“Pretty much,” Zayn concedes as they hear a howl split the night.  “So do you come up here often?”

Harry’s wearing a knowing expression as he regards Zayn seriously.  “You’re fishing to find out if I bring dates up here again.  Stop.  I don’t like the whole possessive vibe right now.”

Zayn is glad Harry doesn’t see him blush.  “No, I was only--”

“Then yes,” Harry cuts him off.  “Sometimes, I rent a car and just drive.”  Harry has this faraway look in his eyes as he speaks in that deliberate, meditative way of his.  Zayn can’t help but think how striking Harry looks right now with the moonlight glowing against his skin.  “For some reason,” Harry continues, “I always end up here.  It’s a good place to clear your head when the lights get too loud, you know?”

He looks at Zayn then.  Questioning.  Vulnerable.  Zayn gets it; he does.  Sometimes the lights get too loud for him as well.

“You ever come up here with your sister?  I mean since it’s so close to the diner and everything?”

And just like that, Harry’s whole demeanour alters.  Before Zayn could see Harry’s soul peeping through the carefully-crafted façade.  Now his face is stony; his body, rigid.

“Can we end the fucking interview now?”  Harry’s tone is decidedly pinched.  “I know we agreed to suspend the rules for a while, but that was clearly a bad idea.  Besides, it’s getting late; we should get back.”

Zayn bites his lip.  He made a wrong turn, and he wishes he could take it back now.  Harry’s withdrawn his hand, has withdrawn himself completely.  His whole body has shifted away from Zayn’s as he peers out the passenger window.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“No.”  

He can tell Harry’s on edge, but he’s not exactly sure why.  He chalks it up to one-too-many personal questions overwhelming him like compounding interest. 

Zayn endeavours to change the subject, to get Harry to come out of his protective shell again.  “So what do you want to do now?”

“Look out into the desert and just forget.”

Zayn presses his luck.  “Forget what?”

Harry turns his head and studies him closely.  “Forget everything.  That okay with you?”

“Yeah, more than okay.”   After all, Zayn isn’t a stranger to demons either.

Zayn’s hand reaches for Harry’s.  He sighs contentedly as stiff ringed fingers slowly intertwine with his.  The view’s magnificent.  The rocky terrain, just visible in shadows and highlights, stretches on for miles.  He’s not sure why he hadn’t noticed it before--or maybe he is as he glances at the boy beside him.  There’s an earthy smell that drifts in from the T-tops, mingling with Harry’s cologne.  The Las Vegas lights seem a long way from here.

He glances over at Harry again and is surprised to see a tear rolling down his cheek.  Harry catches it with his other hand, the one not locked with Zayn’s.

“You alright?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry dismisses, breathing in deep and shutting his eyes tight.  “Want to fuck or something?  There’s always the backseat.”

“No, I want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Why?” Harry demands almost angrily, eyes wide and bright now.  “What fucking difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference,” Zayn murmurs, barely audible.  “It makes a difference to me.”

“It shouldn’t,” Harry snaps back, rubbing his eyes until they’re red. 

“I know.”  Zayn should just leave it there.  Harry doesn’t want to hear what he’s about to say, but he couldn’t stop the word vomit now if he tried.  “I know I shouldn’t bring emotions into the equation, Harry.  I know it isn’t what we agreed on, but the fact is I _do_ care--a lot.  I’m not going to sit back and discard your feelings because the masochist in you is screaming for me to do that.  Fuck, I even consider _Niall_ a friend now, and you’re….”  Zayn pauses, searching for the right way to say it.  “You’re so much more than that.  It’s ridiculous to think I could just block off every emotion when it comes to you.  I _care_ about you, Harry, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”

Zayn finishes speaking and for a moment, he thinks he’s gotten through to Harry.  There’s a fragility in his eyes that Zayn’s never seen before.  It looks like he might break at any moment, and honestly, that might be a good thing.

But then it’s gone, and Harry’s walls are erected once again--only higher and even more tangible this time around. 

“I want to go home.  Take me home.”

With a heavy heart, Zayn turns the key and the Mustang roars to life.  He rubs his knee before putting the car in reverse.

They drive in silence--Zayn’s eyes on the road ahead and Harry gazing out the window.  It isn’t until they’re almost at Charleston Boulevard that it dawns on him:  he hasn’t a clue where Harry lives.  It seems unbelievable that Zayn’s never thought of this before.  Maybe it’s because Harry always comes to his apartment.  Or it could just be that Zayn associates Harry with the Oasis so strongly.  His dressing room is so lived in, so _Harry_.  It’s like in elementary school when he was convinced that his teachers never went home to families and a life outside of school.

“So, um, where do you live?”

Harry yawns loudly.  “What was that?” he asks in a sleep-tinged voice.  He must have drifted off to sleep during the long and lonely drive. 

“I asked where you live.  You wanted to go home, remember?”

Harry seems confused at first.  He yawns again and stretches before answering.  “Can we just go back to yours?”

Zayn’s dumbfounded.  “But I thought--”

“Yes?”

Zayn turns to Harry and the other boy has a warning look.  It’s as if he’s telling Zayn not to go there, not to ask the question that’s on his mind.  Zayn’s seen that look before. 

Still, he can’t help but wonder why Harry changed his mind or even if he _did_ change his mind.  He supposes Harry could’ve meant Zayn’s place to begin with although that sounded like a bit of reach.  Harry asked him to take him _home_.  That couldn’t be Zayn’s, could it?  Then, another thought occurs to him:  maybe Harry doesn’t want him to know where he lives.  Maybe he’s embarrassed or maybe he’s so private he’s trying to keep it a secret. 

Or maybe Zayn’s just being fucking paranoid.

There are a hundred questions on his lips, but he doesn’t ask any of them.  He doesn’t ask because that’s their arrangement--no questions.  He’d forgotten earlier, became too casual with it when they agreed to temporarily suspend the rule.

But Harry reminded him.  Harry never forgets the rules.

When they arrive back at the apartment, Harry appears to be wide awake as he steps out of his shoes.  He peels off his shirt and (Zayn’s) jacket, then beelines straight for the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of _pinot grigio_ Zayn received last Christmas.  Zayn didn’t even remember he still had it in there.

Zayn watches as Harry flits about the kitchen in just his jeans, glorious abs and tattoos on full display.  He gathers the wine glasses and a corkscrew, and Zayn decides not to interfere.  Harry knows where everything is; he’s got it all under control.  The wine’s tucked under his arm, and Zayn can’t help but admire the way his hips swing to close an open drawer.

Harry sets everything down on the dining room table, and Zayn immediately takes over.  His server experience aides him as he effortlessly uncorks the wine and pours it with a practiced tilt of the wrist. 

Harry seems mildly impressed as he slides into a chair across from Zayn.  “I didn’t realise you were such a wine connoisseur, babe.  Please don’t tell me you’re going to do that weird gargling thing next.”

“I’m not anything of the sort,” Zayn confides, taking a sip from his glass.  “But I worked in an Italian restaurant for about six months.  Practiced my technique but ended up quitting before I was old enough to actually serve the stuff.  Still, tricks of the trade I guess you could say.”

“I never would have pegged you for a waiter.  Bet you looked good in the uniform, though.”

Zayn wiggles his eyebrows.  “Guess you’ll never know.”

“We could always roleplay.”  There’s a playful look in Harry’s eyes and for a moment, Zayn forgets that they’re not really boyfriends.  It’s easy to do that when Harry’s like this.  Too easy.

“Are you telling me you have a waiter kink?”

“Nah,” Harry blushes.  Zayn can’t help but think the colour suits him.  “No, pretty sure I’ve just got a Zayn Malik kink actually.”

Zayn grins roguishly.  “Well, have I got some good news for you….”   

Zayn barely gets the words out, barely is able to rip off his shirt before Harry’s on top of him, straddling the chair and grinding on him so hard it almost hurts.  The bottle tips over in the process, but they don’t care.  They’re both too frantic, caught up in the throes of passion, and lust, and alcohol, and everything else. 

Zayn’s nails dig into Harry’s hips as the younger boy bites down hard on his lip.  His eyes water a bit, but it feels good.  It feels so fucking good. 

Somehow Harry removes his jeans while his lips are bruising Zayn’s, and Zayn is sure it must be some kind of a magic act.  Harry’s got two packets in his hand--lube and a condom.  Harry’s already tearing the condom open with his teeth, eyes becoming a darker jade as desire sets in.  Zayn swipes the lube packet from him.

“You’re like a fucking Boy Scout, aren’t you?” Zayn teases as his hand slides inside of Harry’s boxers to grab his ass.  “Always prepared, yeah?”

“You know it.  I always bring essential supplies for road trips,” Harry smirks before it’s wiped off his pretty face when Zayn pushes a finger into him.

“You like it rough, don’t you, baby?” Zayn taunts.  Harry gasps a little, leaning against Zayn’s shoulder for support.  “You probably just want me to take that finger out and sit you on my hard cock right now, don’t you?”

Harry’s makes a little strangled noise at that, and it goes straight to Zayn’s dick.  He loves how turned on Harry gets from dirty talk, fucking lives for it.  

It spurs him on to get even filthier.  “You want more, don’t you?” he purrs in Harry’s ear.  “You don’t care if you’re ripped open as long as you get my cock.  Isn’t that right?”  Harry shudders against him.  “Feel how hard I am for you, baby; feel how hard you’ve made me.”

Harry reaches down, presses his palm against Zayn’s clothed erection, and moans.  “I’m ready, just do it,” he keens.  He’s bucking up against Zayn’s torso, searching for whatever friction he can get for his own needy cock, heavy and wet between them.

“I love when you’re so eager for me, but you’re going to have to wait.  You’re not getting it that easily.”

“Fuck you,” Harry growls.

Zayn just chuckles devilishly.  “Maybe if you play your cards right.”  He adds a second finger though because he’s not sure how much more teasing Harry can take.  Soon, Harry’s clawing at his biceps, gyrating his hips while he rides Zayn's fingers. 

“F-fuck, that’s enough,” Harry sputters, his whole body shaking.  “I’m gonna come if you--”

And that’s exactly what Zayn was waiting for as he begins scissoring his fingers, pressing against the spot that’s making Harry moan every time.  He wraps his other hand around Harry’s stiff length and starts to jerk him off with firm, quick strokes. 

“Zayn!” Harry gasps.  He bites into Zayn’s shoulder as his orgasm erupts soon after, spilling into Zayn’s hand and between their stomachs.

The larger boy crumples against him and Zayn manages to carry him over to the loveseat.  “I got you,” Zayn assures him before setting the awkward burden down on the arm.  “Lay back,” he orders.  Harry’s legs immediately come up as his upper body dips lower on the couch. 

Zayn unzips his fly and exhales as he frees his hardness.  He slips on the condom and gives himself a couple of strokes with the remaining lube.  Gravity assists him as he pulls Harry’s legs over his shoulders.  Then, before Harry can catch his breath, he’s pushing in.  The angle is odd, but the way Harry’s hips are propped up on the arm while his eyes are filled with pure lust is almost too much to take.  After a few tentative thrusts, Zayn begins ploughing into him, making Harry’s hips inch forward with every other thrust. 

Once or twice, he feels the familiar coil rising in his stomach, but he shoves it away.  He wants Harry to come again, wants to see him completely wrecked as Zayn fucks him all over his living room.

The second Harry begins lazily stroking himself, Zayn knows the other boy’s close and honestly, he’s so fucking thankful.  Harry’s a mess, muttering absolute gibberish as his eyes gloss over.  It makes Zayn fuck down into the younger boy even harder.  Harry’s legs tighten around Zayn’s neck like a halter and the hand working himself speeds up.  Harry’s just about there now.  His jaw drops open slightly as the veins in his neck strain.

Zayn lets loose, aiming for Harry’s prostrate again and again as he searches for his own release.  He finds it.  They both do, coming in a chorus of guttural moans.

Gently, Zayn pulls out and sets Harry’s feet back on the arm of the couch.  He pulls Harry up and the boy almost topples over him as he stands on shaky legs.  When he’s sure Harry’s got his balance back, Zayn leads him to the bedroom, grabbing a couple of towels out of the linen closet on the way.

After cleaning up and throwing on a new pair of boxers, he gets into bed.  Harry’s already under the covers, a blissed-out look in his eyes.

“That,” Harry rasps, “was amazing.”

“I was going to tell you the same thing.”

Harry stares at him for a long time before he closes his eyes.  There’s an almost pained expression on his face as he shifts in bed and Zayn’s wondering if he went too hard that time.

“You good, baby?” Zayn murmurs, stroking the side of the other boy’s face lovingly.  Harry immediately tenses up and Zayn can’t help but think:  _here we go again_.

“Don’t.”

Zayn props himself up on an elbow.  He needs to see Harry’s face again right now.  “But earlier…in the car…when I told you--”

“I never agreed to anything,” Harry objects, his tone as hard as diamonds.  “I just don’t like when people ask me if I’m okay or whatever.  It pisses me off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry grumps, brushing a couple of bothersome curls from his face.  Under any other circumstances, Zayn might think he looks cute--a Shirley Temple level of cuteness.  Harry’s all furrowed eyebrows and pouty lips right now.

But this isn’t one of those times.

“Of course you don’t want to talk about it, Harry.”  They’re going around in circles now, and it’s fucking exhausting.  “You never want to talk about anything ever, and I don’t know if I can accept that.”

“Well, you don’t really have a choice, do you?” Harry snarls in return.

“I could walk away.”

Harry just calls his buff.  “Go ahead.”

It’s then that Zayn sees it in the other boy’s eyes.  Harry _would_ let him walk out.  Just like that.  Or Zayn’s pretty sure he would, and that’s good enough for him to hedge his bets.  Plenty good. 

“Listen, if I’m not allowed to ask how you are, could you at least promise to tell me if you’re not okay?  Or Niall even?  Could we _at least_ agree on that?” 

Harry contemplates this for a minute before nodding his head.  “Yeah, I can do that.”

Zayn knows it’s probably a lie, but he accepts it anyway because, as Harry indicated earlier, he doesn’t really have a choice. 

Harry flips over then, and suddenly Zayn’s feeling cold and alone.  He should be used to it now, shouldn’t feel the sting when Harry all but ignores him after the most intimate of moments.  But he does. 

_At least he’s still here.  At least he hasn’t left yet._

When morning comes, Zayn isn’t the least bit surprised to find the bed empty and cold next to him.  Again, he should be used to it by now.  It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did the first time--or the second or tenth time Harry disappears like a thief in the night.

And if he’s being honest with himself, it doesn’t. 

No, it hurts more-- _way_ fucking more.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Hit

 

“We can’t do this,” Harry breathes out suddenly.

“Can’t do what?” Zayn yawns.  He could use some clarification because they’re not actually doing anything at the moment, just lying in bed.  “Hey, remind me not to let you drink wine anymore,” he teases, trickling kisses along Harry’s neck and down his arm.  Zayn’s only half-kidding really.  Harry had brought over a new bottle of _pinot grigio_ to replace the one that was sacrificed for Harry’s amorous charge on him the other night.  Zayn’s seen him drink wine twice now and both times he’s acted, well… _weird_ afterwards.  Weirder than normal anyways.

The sheet’s tangled at their feet and Harry’s shaking so he presses against him. 

“Zayn, I mean it.  Get off me.”  There’s a panic in Harry’s voice now so Zayn does as he asks immediately. 

“Sorry, I thought you liked my touch,” he bristles.

“I do, but…”

“You only want to be near me when we’re having sex,” Zayn finishes.  “I get it.” 

Again, Harry doesn’t say anything, and his silence hangs heavy in the bedroom.  It’s too much to take right now. 

“I’m gonna have a smoke.  Be right back.”

Zayn heads out to his small balcony with a pack of menthols.  Vegas is in the middle of a heatwave (even though it’s fucking late autumn) so he doesn’t bother with a shirt.   He just ties the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms before sliding the door closed behind him. 

He takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the nicotine calm his nerves.  If he’s honest, it takes the edge off, but that’s about it.  It doesn’t help him forget.  It doesn’t lessen the bite of rejection he feels.  That rejection’s always there, but tonight he feels it keenly, like an acute illness that’s come to a head. 

He really should’ve seen it coming.  That’s the thing.

Zayn’s eyelids are drooping so he puts his half-smoked cig in the ashtray and curls up on the chaise. 

When Zayn opens his eyes again, he sees that the moon has travelled to the opposite side of the slice of night sky visible from his balcony.  His mouth is dry and his body feels stiff as he stands. He wonders how long he’s been out here. 

Stretching and rubbing his eyes, he goes back inside.  The first thing he notices when he walks into his bedroom is that Harry’s still there.  The second thing he notices is the empty wine bottle next to the nightstand.  It had been half-full earlier.  He’s sure of it.

He sighs and climbs into bed.  The other boy stirs, and Zayn can see tears staining his cheeks even in the near darkness.

“I fell asleep on the balcony,” Zayn explains.  It sounds more like an apology.  Maybe it is.

“Oh.”  Harry takes a shuddering breath.

Zayn hesitates.  “I know I’m not supposed to ask, but is…everything okay?”

“No,” Harry answers flatly.  “No, nothing’s okay.  Nothing’s okay at all.”

Zayn combs his fingers through curls and for once, the other boy doesn’t push him away.  “Tell me about it,” he soothes.  “I’m here.  I’m listening.”

“I’m no good for you, babe,” Harry falters.  “This won’t turn out well--I promise you that.  You should get out while you can.” 

“If it’s so bad,” Zayn reasons, “why don’t you end it?”

“Because I’m selfish,” Harry answers straight away, “and weak.  Because I want this to last as long as it can--even if it kills me when it’s over.”

“You don’t know for sure how this is going to end, Harry.”

“Yes, I do actually.  You’re gonna hate me.”

“No, I won’t,” Zayn promises, pulling Harry in close.  There’s something so endearing about him now.  He wishes he could hold on to this boy forever.  Even though he’s talking rubbish, there’s still a genuine element of emotion in Harry’s words.  It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling Zayn he cares about him, that they mean something, and that Harry doesn’t want that something to end.  “I could never hate you, Harry.”

“Mark my words, you will.” 

Zayn tries to think of a way to console him, but Harry isn’t done yet.  “The funny thing is…it’s all your fault, really,” he muses.  His speech is getting even slower than usual as his words begin to slur together.Zayn knows it’s due to sheer physical and emotional exhaustion as much as the wine from earlier.  “I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, Zayn.  That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“H-Harry….”  His voice catches in his throat.  Zayn can’t believe the admission the other boy’s just made.  He doesn’t know whether he should pretend it’s nothing, or make love to him right then and there, or admit the depth of his own feelings.  His head’s swimming like he’s lost the count and the dealer’s got an ace of spades showing. 

“Hold me, Zayn,” Harry says softly, quelling Zayn’s inner turmoil.  “Just hold me, please.”

So he does.  He’s awake long after the younger boy falls asleep in his arms though.  His mind is buzzing with what-if’s he shouldn’t allow himself to be thinking.  He’s breaking all the rules--shattering them into oblivion actually.  But somehow, as he listens to the gentle rhythm of Harry’s breathing and feels the warm body pressed against his, it doesn’t seem to matter.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Harry never repeats his drunken admission.  Zayn doesn’t mention it either, but he remembers it.  It’s something to keep him warm at night when Harry’s not there and the loneliness of the night creeps up on him. 

He wonders if Harry remembers it even though they don’t speak of it.  He wonders if Harry meant any of it in the first place.

Zayn wonders about a lot of things.

Harry still comes and goes, mostly at night but sometimes during the afternoons as well before Zayn’s about to go to the casino.  His schedule is erratic, as unpredictable as Harry is himself.  That’s the only thing Zayn’s sure of.

Sometimes Harry brings pills.  Sometimes they smoke some of Zayn’s weed.  Sometimes they drink too much.

It’s becoming a problem because it’s become a habit, a thing.  Just like them.  They’ve become a thing, too, one which can’t be categorised but exists regardless.

Zayn tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter if they party, if they have fun--as long as he remembers to wait until he comes down before he gambles. 

Soon though, Zayn can’t tell if he’s up or down, can’t tell if he’s high or low.  He feels a constant aching, a craving for something that goes beyond basic needs.  It goes beyond the pull of gambling, and the strip, and the sex, and the drugs.  He craves something which he knows he can never fully have. 

But maybe that’s what makes him want it more.

He craves Harry.  And not just his body--although that’s a conquest in itself.  He craves a _connection_.  He feels the emptiness inside of Harry, recognises it as his own in many ways.  He questions if Harry can fill that void he’s had since before he could remember, the chip on his shoulder that began when he was young and which turned into a gaping chasm he tried to fill with gambling.  When Zayn won at gambling, he felt like he won at life.  His inflated ego could cope.  He could tell himself he was doing just fine. 

He’s not winning now--not in gambling or in anything else.  Harry isn’t either.  He looks wan, sallow.  There are black circles living under his eyes now and a constant twitch in his fingers.  His eyes have dulled to a pale dishwater colour.  The fire’s gone whenever he’s not performing.  He’s almost unrecognisable and Zayn wonders if it’s partially his fault.

This tears at him.

The only thing that remains completely unchanged is Harry’s voice.  It’s still beautiful and raw, still rips into Zayn, hits him in places he didn’t know he could feel things anymore--not like this.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“Got cash on you?” Harry demands when Zayn enters his dressing room.  Zayn’s half-tempted to make some snide remark about why he didn’t ask Louis when the pair were talking backstage before the show earlier.  He’s not sure why Louis is always hanging around the lounge when he ought to be on the casino floor.  Of course, it’s not like Zayn wants him _there_ either.

Zayn wonders why Harry needs the money, speculates if he needs it to cover rent or utilities for the mysterious apartment Zayn’s never set eyes on.  Zayn’s curious but that doesn’t mean he’s going to ask Harry.  No, that would be prying.  That would be asking a question he’s not supposed to ask, and they don’t do that. 

Zayn rubs the back of his neck.  “Um, yeah, how much you need?” 

“Whatever, doesn’t matter.”

The answer baffles Zayn, but he fishes in his wallet and pulls out a stack of crisp new twenty dollar bills, fresh from the ATM in the lobby.  It’s about three hundred dollars--give or take--and it’s all he has with him.  Harry seems to approve as he immediately takes the money from Zayn, peeling the top bill from the thick stack before handing back the rest.

Zayn’s really confused now.

Harry drops to his knees and hunches over the coffee table.  He’s focused on something.  Zayn steps closer.

It’s coke and Harry’s cutting it with a playing card.  Of course he is.

Zayn did it once--at a party with Georgios, but it’s not his thing.  He doesn’t do hard shit.  He knows it fucks with your mind, and he can’t afford that.

“Wanna go first?” Harry offers, holding up the rolled-up twenty Zayn just gave him.  Zayn doesn’t move, just stares at the four perfect white lines stretched out on the glass.  He almost gets off on how straight and neat they are.

“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugs.  “More for me, I guess.”  Harry leans in, taps a finger to one nostril and snorts the line like a pro. 

Zayn doesn’t do blow, but somehow, he likes the idea of Harry doing it even less.  “I’ll, uh, take one if you’re offering,” he quickly intercedes.

“Help yourself, babe,” Harry says, scooting to the side to give Zayn room to crouch over the glass table. 

A bit nervously, Zayn leans down and takes the bill from Harry.  He does a line and instantly feels an extraordinary rush.  It hits him hard, now that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like, now that he’s got a few drinks in him as well.  It’s like a bolt of lightning--bad and exalting at the same time.

But mostly bad.

“Do another one if you like.” 

Zayn’s not sure he should.  This isn’t his scene.  His pulse is racing and he’s jittery, but he tells himself it’s better if he does the line than Harry.  He’s stronger than Harry in a lot of ways.  He’s a fucking superman.  He can take it. 

He discards his jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves, and does another line.

This one makes him see stars, makes him feel like he’s soaring through the galaxy.  He only half-observes as Harry takes the twenty back and inhales the final line.  He can tell Harry’s flying, too--there’s a wildness in his green eyes that makes Zayn lose all sense of control.

“Wanna fuck you, babe,” he moans, straining for Harry’s lips.

“No, not here,” Harry rebukes, standing up unsteadily.  “No fucking in my dressing room, remember?”

Zayn follows, pulling at the other boy’s thin silk shirt as he tries to walk away from him.  “Come on.”

“No,” Harry shuts him down.  “I’m tired.  It’s been a long night.”  He collapses on the sofa, legs far apart in a man-spread.  Zayn drops down and crawls between them.  Harry raises an eyebrow as Zayn undoes his zipper but doesn’t stop him.

“Let me suck you off, yeah?” Zayn mewls.  “Haven’t done it yet, you know.  Been dying to get my mouth on you.” 

“The fuck’s gotten into you, Zayn?” Harry mumbles as if they both don’t know.

Zayn’s already got Harry’s erection half-free however.  It’s still hiding behind Harry’s boxers, but Zayn’s feeling impatient so he mouths over the outline of Harry’s dick, revels in how it gets harder and harder with each growing second.

“Please, baby?”

Harry’s pushes him away with a hand to Zayn’s forehead.  Zayn’s about to capitulate, but then he sees Harry hurriedly pulling his trousers down until they bag at his ankles.

“Well?  This what you want?” Harry goads, pointing his dick at the boy on his knees.  Zayn licks his lips; he can’t help himself.  “Well come and get it then.”

Zayn can feel a stiffness in his own trousers as he admires the other boy’s uncut length before swooping in, nothing stopping him now.

He spits into his palm and wraps a sure hand around Harry, revelling in the way it immediately fattens up at the mere touch of his hands.  Zayn pumps him until the first sign of pre-cum spills out to assist him.  Harry slides down on the sofa, his cock sticking up almost obscenely against his abdomen now, giving Zayn even greater access to it as he leans over and flicks his tongue over the weeping slit.  It’s salty, but there’s a citrusy-sweetness to it as well.  It tastes strangely good.  It tastes like Harry.

He licks a broad stripe up the underside, following a bulging blue vein, before going down on him in full.  Zayn smiles as he feels Harry’s body tense, feels the strain in Harry’s legs as his quads tighten.  Zayn braces himself by grabbing on to one of Harry’s calves.  The other hand digs into the flesh of the boy’s thigh as he bobs up and down, up and down. 

Harry’s doing his best to hold himself back, to not fuck into Zayn’s mouth.  Zayn can feel the tension in the other boy’s strong thigh muscles holding him back.  Harry’s hands are moving through his hair, but they’re not pulling it.  They’re not demanding like Georgios’ were, the last time Zayn sucked cock.  Zayn likes that.

It’s clear Harry’s letting him take charge even though Zayn’s the one on his knees right now.  He always feels the need to be in control, but the feeling seems to be intensified by the narcotic coursing through his system.

He twists his hand as he continues to work the younger boy’s cock.  His cheeks hallowing out and lips burning from the stretch as they glide over Harry’s girth.  He can hear the grunts and stuttering groans Harry emits above him, and he pulls off a little to get a better look at the boy.

Harry is wrecked.  His hair looks all fucked-out as if he’s the one performing the blowjob and not the other way around.  There’s a line of sweat across his brow, and the colour’s back in his cheeks.   

But then there are his _eyes_.  They’re even wilder than before.  He’s positively leering at Zayn who’s practically choking on his dick now.  Zayn has to bring one hand down to palm himself through his jeans.  There’s no way he can’t, not with the way Harry’s ogling him right now.

Closing his eyes so he doesn’t fucking come before the guy he’s sucking off, Zayn relaxes his throat and tries to take in more of Harry’s length.  It’s uncomfortable at first, but he presses on.  He feels almost triumphant when a few hairs tickle the tip of his nose. 

“I’m gonna come, b-babe,” Harry warns him breathlessly.  He’s as good as his word because Zayn barely has time to brace himself before he feels hot liquid gushing down his throat.  He’s severely out of practice so half of it ends up sputtering out of his mouth and dripping down his chin.  He coughs and wipes the come off his face with the back of his hand before lifting his gaze.

“We just broke a rule,” Harry deadpans when they’ve both caught their breaths.  It’s underwhelming to say the least.

“That’s one down anyway,” Zayn snarks.  He doesn’t have to look at Harry to know the other boy’s rolling his eyes at him.  “And if you’re referring to the ‘no sex in your dressing room rule,’ don’t even bother to pretend you’ve never broken that one before.” 

Zayn gets up and stumbles to the sink to clean up.  He’s sweating like crazy, his pulse is two beats too fast, and his hands are starting to go numb.  He feels his nausea grow and wonders if he should start looking for a toilet.

One thing’s for certain:  he’s never going to do coke again.  That’s for fucking sure.

Harry clearly can’t hear his inner dialogue.  “You want another line?” he offers, spilling the remainder of the little plastic baggie onto the coffee table.  “There isn’t much left, but I could cut it in two, if you want.”

“No, I’m done with that shit.”

Harry shrugs.  “Good, more for me then.”

“You really need to slow down a little, Harry.”

Harry’s barely paying attention to him now, too focused on forming the white powder into one perfect line.  “Why?”

Zayn can’t watch.  He tries to block out the sound of the card hitting the glass.  It splits through his head, killing whatever remained of his neglected hard-on from earlier.  “Because…well, you look like shit.” 

Harry unleashes a low, disembodied laugh that makes Zayn’s skin crawl.  “That why you couldn’t keep your mouth off my dick?  Because I look so fucking bad, Zayn?” Harry jeers, sitting back on his feet to look up at his lover.  “Listen if you don’t like how I look, that’s fine.  I’ve got plenty of other guys just waiting in line for a piece of this ass.” 

“Shut up,” Zayn grumbles, slinging his jacket over one shoulder.  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” 

“I just….”  Zayn can’t even remember what he was going to say now because he’s watching Harry snort the last line, and it feels like the tipping point of something he can’t quite put his finger on.  He exhales slowly.  “I just wish you’d take it easy, that’s all.” 

Harry looks like a ghost of himself.  The circles under his eyes are even darker than usual.  Zayn wishes he could make it better, make _Harry_ better somehow.  He wishes he could chase the mysterious demons away, but he’s afraid if he oversteps a boundary, Harry will push him away for good.  And he can’t live with that. 

Zayn sighs as he walks to the door and pauses with his hand on the knob.  “At least get some sleep, yeah?”

Harry nods blankly.  Zayn tries not to look at his eyes because they scare him. 

Zayn leaves Harry’s dressing room and then finds the nearest toilet.

He’s never doing coke again.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Zayn returns early the next night.  He’s losing now and he doesn’t even know why. 

That’s not true.  He _does_ know why.  He knows exactly why.  He’s distracted; worried about Harry.  He wants to see him tonight, but Harry says he’s tired.  It’s an excuse.  Zayn can tell.

The next night, Harry says he’s still feeling “under the weather.”  It’s one of his off nights, but Harry still doesn’t want to see him.  Zayn offers to bring over a home-cooked meal or keep Harry company until he’s feeling better, but Harry quickly turns him down.  The ease and speed of the way he does so stings. 

The following afternoon, the blow is softened slightly when Harry invites him to the band’s show on Friday night.  He tells Zayn they’re doing a couple of new numbers then, tunes he thinks Zayn might like. 

“Or you could come to the show tonight if you really want,” Harry offers but Zayn can hear the reluctance in his voice.  “I mean, I still sound like shit and would really prefer if you waited until Friday though.  I was planning to just, you know, do the show and then go straight home to sleep.”

“No, that’s fine,” Zayn assures him.  He doesn’t want to be a nuisance, doesn’t want to seem too needy.  “I was planning on hitting up another casino anyway,” he fibs.  “Hope you feel better soon.”

“So do I.”

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Zayn’s still sat on his bed, pondering over yet another conversation with Harry that leaves him feeling a bit vacant, when he receives a text.  It’s from Niall, and the blonde’s asking to meet him in an hour.  It’s a bit out of the ordinary, but he likes Niall so he agrees.

Besides, he figures it might give him an opportunity to pick Niall’s mind regarding what’s going on with his bandmate.

Zayn has to take a cab to the Casino Royale because his Cobra’s in the shop and will most likely be there for a few weeks while they send out for custom parts.  His car is his baby, the one thing (aside from a certain lounge singer) that he’s allowed himself to become attached to.  The idea of it being disassembled like any other piece of steel machinery makes him positively ill.

And so does the bill--especially when the only money’s he’s had coming in lately is from his modest investments.  If he’s not careful, he’s either going to have to downsize or--God forbid--find a real job, one that utilises zero of his talents.

He gets dropped off in back and even in the daylight, he can’t help but feel the place is a bit shabbier than he remembers.  Empty bottles are strewn around everywhere.  His wallet feels heavy in his inside pocket as he tries to avoid eye contact with several shady characters with dishonest faces.  Head down, he makes a bullet for the door.  You can’t be too careful on the strip. 

When he gets into the casino, it’s not as bad.  It isn’t bad at all really.  Still, he wonders why Niall didn’t just suggest the Oasis or a closer bar.

He gets his answer almost immediately upon seeing the Irishman.  He’s got a tall glass of beer in front of him, and he pretends to tip an imaginary cap when he spots Zayn making his way through the slots. 

“Cheers, mate!” 

“Hey, Niall.  What are you drinking?”

“They’ve got dollar Michelob’s here,” Niall informs him like it’s the best news he’s heard all year.  “Can’t bloody beat that.” 

Zayn hesitates briefly before ordering the same.  _When in Rome_ ….

“Fancy a slider?”

Zayn looks down to see a White Castle carton on the bar.  “Um, no thanks,” he declines, figuring one has to draw the line somewhere. “So is that why you didn’t want to meet at the Oasis then?”

“I actually wanted some place where we could talk.  Harry’s friendly-like with all the staff at the Oasis, in case you haven’t noticed.  Even if Harry isn’t there, Liam or one of the other lads at the bar would tattle to him.”  Niall chews on his lip a moment.  “I’d never normally do this, go behind Harry’s back or whatever, just so you know, but--”

“Nah, you’re good, bro,” Zayn reassures him.  “So what’d you wanna talk about specifically?”

“Well, to be honest….”  Niall pauses for a moment, wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Well, I’m worried about Harry.  He’s not been looking too hot lately, and it affects both my friendship with him as well as my livelihood.  I quite like him and this gig we’ve got.  Don’t fancy losing either.”

Zayn tenses up.  “Oh, I see.  You don’t want me interfering--is that it?”

“Nah, not at all,” Niall rushes to say.  His kind blue eyes are wide as if the last thing he meant to do was upset Zayn.  “Obviously, didn’t make myself clear.”  He takes a bite of a slider and chews thoughtfully.  Zayn just waits; he can tell Niall’s searching for the best way to express what’s on his mind. 

“I think whatever’s wrong with Harry,” Niall continues, “it goes beyond your relationship.  Having said that, I think you might be the only one who can bring him around--or maybe we could sort of pool our efforts, like.  At the same time, I don’t want Harry to drag you down.”  Niall eyes Zayn seriously.  “And don’t lie to me because I can tell he’s sinking you, little by little.  You want to watch yourself or you’ll lose yourself before you know it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn concedes, lighting up a cigarette.  “The drugs, the heavy drinking…it’s gotta stop.  It’s no good for me or him.  It’s definitely no good for my gambling.”

Niall cocks an eyebrow.  “You got a history of drug abuse or whatever?”

“No.  That’s the thing.  I mean I’m no saint, but I’ve always been one who can take it or leave it--well, maybe until lately anyway.”  He shakes his head.  He’s disappointed in himself, disappointed in how he’s been ‘sinking’ as Niall aptly put it.  “I even said something to Harry the other day.  I told him I was done with the hard stuff and suggested he follow suit.”

“And?”

“And I don’t even think it even registered to be honest.”  Zayn suddenly feels ashamed.  He’s let Harry fall because he’s been afraid to say anything until recently--and then it wasn’t even much more than a weak suggestion.  Zayn sees it clearly now.  He’s been enabling Harry, allowing him to bring the both of them down simply because Zayn’s been a Goddamn coward.    

Niall tips back his beer.  “Like I said, I’m worried.  I don’t ever remember it getting this bad.”

“You think he’s upset about something?”

Niall gives him a lopsided grin, one that nowhere near reaches his eyes.  “Was hoping you could tell me that,” he admits with a sigh.  “I’ll be straight though--I don’t get it.  He’s clearly got feeling for you, but I can tell he’s slipping into one of his moods again.  I’m like massively concerned now; won’t deny it, mate.”

“Niall,” Zayn begins worriedly, almost biting through his lip, “do you think…do you think there’s someone else?”

“Nah,” Niall replies, dispelling some of Zayn’s fears.  “Haven’t seen anyone new hanging about.  Harry ignores them all anyway.”

“What about Louis?”

Niall blinks for a second as if the thought never occurred to him.  “No…they used to have something on and off, but it’s over now.  I’m sure of that--or at least I think I am.”  His words are doing nothing to alleviate the jealousy bubbling up in Zayn’s chest.  “But I don’t think Harry ever felt anything towards him, like.”

“Did Harry tell you as much?”

“What do you think?” Niall shoots back sardonically.  “The lad does have a strange pull on Harry, I’ll admit.  I can’t quite explain it, but I can tell you it’s not healthy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not sure.  It’s just…I don’t know.  It’s probably all rubbish, but I just sense that there’s something not quite right there, you know?”  Niall looks thoughtful.  “I’d watch out for him though.  Louis isn’t the type of bloke you wanna piss off.”

Zayn wants to tell Niall that he isn’t the least bit intimidated by the interfering casino worker, but he holds his tongue.  Besides, it’s not like Zayn’s about to go out of his way to get on Louis’ bad side.

“Anyway, just wanted to meet with ya and tell you you’re a solid lad, yeah?”  Niall finishes off his beer and hiccups loudly, not the least bit embarrassed.  “And even though I love Harry like me own brother, I have to warn you to think about yourself first.  You gotta keep yourself sane and healthy--even if that means pissing off for a while.  You know what they always say on airplanes about putting your oxygen mask on first before attending to another person?”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little, bro?” Zayn asks light-heartedly.

“No, I don’t.  Think I’m bang on, unfortunately.”

Zayn has a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He knows Niall’s right. 

He also knows he has to see Harry.  He can’t hide his feelings anymore, and he can’t stand by and watch the boy he loves come undone like this.

No, something’s gotta give. 

He resolves to visit the frontman tonight after the show.  He told Harry he wasn’t going to be there, but it might be better to catch him off guard anyway.  He tells Niall his plans, and the guitarist seems grateful and more than a little relieved. 

Zayn wishes he felt as confident.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“It’s time to get rid of him.” 

Zayn can hear the high-pitched voice carry through the corridor as he approaches Harry’s dressing room.  Louis.  It’s unmistakable.

To be fair, Harry wasn’t expecting him.  Zayn had decided to ‘surprise’ Harry after his heart-to-heart with Niall.  Now, he’s starting to regret that decision because if there’s something going on between Harry and Louis, well…he’s not sure if he wants to find out this way.

“I’d think you wouldn’t mind him sticking around,” Harry argue back, his voice just as audible as Louis’.  “It’s not like he’s bad for business as it is right now.”

Zayn holds his breath and leans in against the wall so he can listen better to the heated exchange leaking out of Harry’s dressing room.  He presumes that neither of the men inside have noticed the door is cracked open just enough.  He’s fully aware he shouldn’t be listening to their conversation, but it’s not the fact that he’s eavesdropping that bothers him.  No, it’s something else, some innate sense that tells him nothing good will come of this.  All of his warning bells are going off.

“You’re not listening to me, Styles,” Louis states.  There’s a dark edge to his voice that makes Zayn uneasy.

A loud thud sounds like something’s been thrown against the wall.  Zayn’s about to step in when he hears Harry’s voice again.  “What the fuck else do you want me to do, Louis?” he demands.  “I’ve done everything we agreed on:  I’ve lured him in, put him off his game.  He hasn’t won here for weeks--for _weeks_ , Louis.  I don’t get why you couldn’t just blacklist him or whatever.  It’s stupid.  This whole thing has gone too far.”

“You’re the one that’s taken it too far, Styles,” Louis barks back.  “Malik’s following you around like a fucking lost puppy.  He thinks he’s actually got a chance with you.  It’s pathetic.”

Zayn’s blood turns cold at the mention of his name.  Zayn’s feeling dizzy with revelations now.  He suspected Harry had secrets and more than a few demons, but this…this is too much.  The guy he’s been sleeping with has been fucking conspiring against him.  He wants to stop listening.  He wants to turn around, walk out the back exit, and then keep on walking until he’s far as hell from this place.

But it’s like he’s frozen in place and the nightmare refuses to end. 

“You’re pathetic for thinking this was going to work!” Harry rages.  “I knew this was a bad idea from the fucking start!”  Another thud sounds, and this time, Zayn’s fairly sure it’s a plant when he hears the additional sound of shattering ceramic.

“We’ve been through all this already,” Louis sibilates, sounding like the snake Zayn now knows him to be.  He’s regained his composure now even if Harry clearly hasn’t.  “I couldn’t blacklist him because he’s not on the official AP list.  I could’ve kicked him out, but I could tell he was going to come back as long as you were performing in the lounge.  I didn’t want to have to make scene after scene, Styles.  It’s not good for business.”

“Then why couldn’t you just let it be?”

“Because _that’s_ bad for business, too,” Louis answers smoothly as if it’s the most logical explanation in the world.

Harry snorts loudly.  “The casino can afford to lose some now and then.”

“Yeah, but not under my watch, not when I’m looking to be promoted by year’s end.” 

“So what do you want me to do?”  There’s resignation in Harry’s voice now.  Zayn might feel bad for him if he weren’t absolutely fucking repulsed by everything he’s heard. 

“I told you,” Louis responds icily.  “You need to get rid of him as quickly as possible.  I realise he’s probably a good fuck and all, but you need to set him straight before he does something that’s gonna make the casino look bad.” 

Zayn doesn’t wait for Harry’s response, just staggers down the hall like he’s drunk, popping into the first open door which happens to be a broom closet.  He’s overcome with emotions:  anger, anguish, shame, jealousy, and a million others he can’t define.  He sinks to his knees and puts his head in his hands.  His mouth opens in a silent wail, yet nothing comes out. 

He realises then that he can’t let this go, can’t just crumble and let Harry think he’s made a fool of him.

So he waits until he hears footsteps pass outside the door, waits until Louis slithers away.  Noiselessly, he opens the door and looks out.  The coast is clear.

Zayn heads back to _17 Black_ and sees the door is closed now.  He knocks on it, reining in his desire to pound it down with his fist.

“Hi, babe,” Harry greets him, opening the door and ushering Zayn inside as if nothing’s happened, as if Zayn’s whole world hadn’t just collapsed in the last ten minutes.  “Didn’t know you were coming by tonight.”

Zayn wants to say something about that being the understatement of the year but somehow stops himself.

“You look upset,” Harry clucks.  “Bad night?”

Zayn stands stiffly just inside the entry.  His eyes sweep the room but nothing’s amiss.  There’s a smell of incense burning his nostrils and everything’s in its right place--except the dirt and shards of earthenware in the far corner.  But Harry looks as innocent and irresistible as ever--looks the best he’s had in a while.  The argument’s brought a healthy colour to his cheeks again. 

It all seems to spite him somehow. 

“I bet I know how I can make you feel better,” Harry purrs.  Zayn can feel the other boy’s hot breath fanning his face as he falls back against the door.  Harry’s palming him now, simultaneously licking a strip up Zayn’s exposed neck.  Suddenly Zayn can’t take it anymore.  He shoves Harry in the chest, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to cause him to stumble over his two left feet.

“What the fuck, Zayn?”

“I’m done,” Zayn manages to say despite the lump in his throat and the pain in his chest.  “Just came here to tell you that.”

Harry’s eyes go wide.  His pupils are dilated and Zayn wonders if it’s from whatever pill he’s just popped.  “You can’t just--”

“Of course I can.  We said ‘no strings, no emotion,’ remember?  I’m dissolving whatever arrangement we had right here and now.”

“But why?”  There’s a desperation in his tone.

“No questions,” he returns.  “Remember, that was _your_ rule.”

Harry’s fists ball at his side.  “Fine then.  Fuck off if you want.  See if I care!”  He stomps away and plops down at the vanity.  “But don’t come begging back on your knees because you miss this.”

“I’ll get over it.  I’ve never been keen on sharing anyway.”

Harry’s eyes flash, angry and indignant.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Zayn grumbles in response, “absolutely nothing.” 

He’s kicking himself right now.  He didn’t want to get into it with Harry like this.  He just wanted a nice, clean break where he didn’t look the complete fool.  Unfortunately (and as was the usual case lately), he’s mucked things up, and now he can’t stop. 

“No, tell me,” Harry insists.  “I’m not cheating on you if that’s what you think.”

“It’s fine,” Zayn responds, but it feels like someone else is speaking for him.  “You don’t have to feel bad about it if you were getting some on the side, Harry.  We were protected, after all, and we never said we were going to be exclusive so.” 

“Stop, Zayn,” Harry pleads, cradling his head in his hands so that Zayn can no longer see him in the vanity mirror.  “Just stop.” 

Zayn has to admit Harry’s acting is on point.  Of course, you’d expect nothing less from a man who makes his living as a performer. 

“Oh shit.”  Zayn slaps a hand to his jaw like he’s made a terrible error.  “You didn’t think we were exclusive, did you?  You didn’t think that you were the only one I was….”  He lets his voice trail off for effect.  It works.

“Get out!” Harry shrieks back at him.  “Get out of my fucking dressing room!”

Zayn wants to leave.  He even starts for the door, but he can’t do it.  The problem is that now Harry’s playing the martyr, and it’s getting under Zayn’s skin.  He can’t let it go even though he knows he should.  He knows he can’t win here, knows he’s been dealt a crummy hand, but he’s reluctant to surrender anyway.

“Goodbye, Harry, and glad I could make it easy for you.  Louis will be thrilled at how quickly you’ve followed his orders.”

There’s a moment of silence as Harry processes his words, understands the full depth of what Zayn’s just revealed.

“Wait!”  Harry lurches to his feet, upsetting half the items on his dressing table.  “Zayn, wait!”

Zayn’s hand is on the door, but Harry pushes him aside.  There’s a frantic intensity about him like that of a caged animal.

Zayn narrows his eyes.  “Move away from the door, Harry.”

“No, not until you explain what you just said!”

“Think it’s pretty self-explanatory, actually,” Zayn replies coolly.  “If you’re confused, though, you could always ask Louis to go into details about your whole scheme again.”   

A vein along Harry’s forehead is twitching.  His breath comes out in short puffs.  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers out.  He still thinks he can put on an act.  If Zayn didn’t know better, he’d say the boy in front of him is on the verge of tears.

Zayn props one palm against the door and leans in.  It’s almost intimate, their stance.  There’s that same tension as always--sexual or otherwise--charging through the room.  Zayn lowers his voice, his breath tickling the hair covering Harry’s ear as he whispers:

“I heard _everything_.”

He pulls away and sees Harry shaking with emotion or fear or something else he can’t define.  Zayn’s beyond caring though.  He can’t believe that Harry-- _his_ Harry--would have backstabbed him like this.  It’s almost beyond comprehension.

Even with all the evidence, part of him just wants to curl Harry in his arms and tell him it’ll be alright.  That _of course_ he believes him, that Zayn’s being ridiculous to even suspect Harry of such a thing. 

But then Harry’s looking at him with guilt written all over that perfect face.  It makes Zayn sick to even look at the boy he thought he knew, the boy he thought he _loved_ , for crying out loud.  Because it’s there.  He can see it just as clearly now that the veil has been lifted.  Harry betrayed him.  He probably did so from the beginning, but that didn’t make it any better.  He pretended to care about him while plotting to bring him to ruin.  Even worse, Harry had been in cahoots with Louis--and the whole fucking time, too.

Zayn sways a bit on his feet and Harry reaches out, but he slaps the helping hand away.  He has to get away from here, from this place with the incense, from those green eyes that make him want to piss away everything just for them.  He’s been a fool.  He’s been a blind fool.  He never should have mixed emotions with gambling.  That was even worse than drugs--far fucking worse.

On the way out, he runs across Louis still dawdling in the hall, talking to some chorus girl.  Before he even knows what he’s doing, Zayn throws a cheap punch.  It hits the floor supervisor square on the chin, and he falls back on his ass.  The hook probably wasn’t enough to do any real damage but Zayn hopes it got his point across. 

By the way Louis is cursing and bitching, it _definitely_ got his point across.  And then some. 

As Zayn bolts out the back way, he swears never to set foot in the Oasis ever again.  This time, it’ll be an easy promise to keep.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

The next day, Zayn doesn’t get out of bed.

He feels an emptiness he can’t describe.  He tries to remember what it feels like to not have Harry in his life, but it seems an insurmountable task.

The following day, he has a plan.  He’s going to pretend Harry never happened.  He’ll erase him from his life.  After all, he’s done it before.  He has erased people who didn’t fit into his life for years now.  It might even be easier with Harry since he was never truly one hundred percent in Zayn’s life anyway. 

Yes, he’ll forget Harry.  Zayn Malik doesn’t need anyone--especially not some lounge singer who never wanted him in the first place.

The first thing he does is wash his sheets.  He uses two bottle caps of the strongest liquid detergent he can find and about ten dryer sheets.  Then he gets dressed and goes about his day, business as usual.  He heads to one of the larger casinos on the strip, plays blackjack, wins a modest amount, and moves on.

He starts walking, brushing off the people trying to talk at him about timeshares.  All of a sudden, he realises he’s been walking south and that he’s only a couple of minutes from the Oasis.

The South end of the strip…it’s the last fucking place he wants to be.  _Ever._

He grabs a bus going north and hops off at Fremont.  Almost immediately, he wants to get back on, but it’s too late.  Without meaning to, he thinks about what Harry said on the cliff about the lights being too loud.  They’re definitely loud tonight.  In fact, they’re giving him a migraine, and he can’t even think straight.

He tries to focus on the people around him instead.  There’s a man with a sandwich board going on about God striking down all sinners at midnight tonight.  He checks his watch reflexively and amusedly figures he’s got a couple of hours left until the shit hits the fan.  A couple of prostitutes try to get his attention, but he shrugs them off along with the couple serenading him with some show tune his sister, Doniya, used to sing all the time.  There’s a Michael Jackson look-alike, and at first Zayn thinks it’s just a mask or make-up, but then he sees it isn’t.  The guy’s got the same bad plastic surgeries, and it isn’t an homage but something deeper.  It freaks him the fuck out. 

Finally, he finds the casino he’s looking for, a seedy joint but one he likes anyway, and enters.

An hour later, he’s stuck trying to decide whether he should take the bus back to the strip or take a taxi home.  He’s also wondering why he came down here in the first place.

He decides to have a cigarette and then hail a cab.  Zayn goes out the back of the casino, neon signs flashing on the opposite side of the street and above him. 

He sees the three shadows approaching, but it doesn’t click until he’s face down on the pavement that he should’ve been more careful.  He’s generally more aware of his surroundings, but he fucked up royally this time.  When the barrage of kicks stops, he reaches in his pocket and flings his wallet at the boots of one of his assailants. 

“Take it,” he mumbles without bothering to open his eyes.  One of them feels like it’s been sealed shut anyway.  There’s a taste of mercury in his mouth, and he wants to puke.

To his surprise, he hears it come coasting back in his direction.  “We don’t want your money, motherfucker.”

And then it starts again.  He curls up into a foetal position and tries his best to cover his head and vital organs from the repetitive blows.  He wants to cry, but he’s too hardened for that.  Zayn Malik doesn’t cry--not in front of these dickheads at any rate.  He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

“I’ve got a message from someone for you,’” one of the goons sneers. 

Zayn carefully uncovers his face.  He wants to know why.  It’s his tragic flaw probably, but he needs to know why three guys he’s never met jumped him for no apparent reason.  “Well?” he musters out.

“ _Bonne_ fucking _chance_ , loser.” 

Zayn should’ve figured.  Louis.  Of course. 

And probably Harry, too.

There’s one more violent kick to his middle, and he wasn’t ready for it this time.  He starts coughing, clutching at his stomach or wherever that blinding pain’s coming from.  He can’t even tell at this point.

Louis’ stooges leave him in the gutter.  It’s almost ironic.  He’s always looked down on his family, on everyone he felt wasn’t playing a winning hand, and now he’s literally the one who’s ended up in the fucking gutter.  He’d laugh out loud if he didn’t feel like his insides were about to burst.

Out of the corner of his good eye, he notices he’s still got his Ferragamo on his wrist and that it appears to be in good shape.  At least there’s that. 

He strains to read the time: three minutes past midnight.

Maybe that dude with the sandwich board was right after all. 

Zayn’s clinging onto consciousness, but the survival instinct is starting to kick in now that he’s alone.  His fingers scrape the pavement in vain for his phone lying just feet away.  It rings, adding insult to injury.  At last, he gives up.  It’s time to surrender his hand, once and for all.  He’s tired.  He’s so fucking tired, and it’s just not worth it anymore.

_Game over, Malik.  You lost._

The electric lights across the way are blinding so he squeezes his eyes shut.  Somehow, it doesn’t make a difference.  The lights still burn the back of his eyelids.  When he hears voices a short time later, he doesn’t respond.  He can’t; he’s too busy drowning in neon.  The vivid colours mix together, and soon all that’s left are cruel jade eyes. 

And they’re laughing at him.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Double Down

 

> _Happy Thanksgiving, baby brother. Hope you’re doing well. Miss you. xo_

Zayn sighs as he stares at the screen of his mobile.  He’s wracking his brain, trying to remember why he stopped talking to Doniya.  It wasn’t really a conscious decision on his part--he doesn’t think so anyway.  It just sort of happened.  His parents wanted nothing to do with him, and over the years the feeling had become decidedly mutual. 

His relationship with his sister though…that was just collateral damage. 

Consciously, he never meant to shut her out.  It was just easier that way.  Emotions were a liability.  Family was a crutch.  The past was a millstone.  He’d never been good at compartmentalising, picking the good from the bad.  It was easier to just block out everything and pretend the emptiness didn’t exist.

But now, lying in a hospital bed, he’s got too much time on his hands.  There are no lights, whistles, and bells to distract him from his thoughts.  There’s nothing but white walls, stiff linens, and too much time.

 _Way_ too much fucking time.

So he thinks about his sister.  He wonders what she’s doing for Thanksgiving, if she’s with Brad’s family (are they even still together?), or if she made the long drive out to Carson City to be with their mom and aunts.

Even though Doniya was only a year older, she’d always been there for him.  She was the one who comforted him when he skinned his knee or when he was bullied at school for being one of the “smart kids.”  He’d been weak then; she, the strong one.  Doniya listened to his dreams of college, of a better life.  She was extremely bright, too, make no mistake.  However, unlike Zayn, she never felt the need to constantly prove it, to shove it in the faces of ignorant assholes.

Their relationship should have been one worth preserving, but Zayn was too busy being a lone wolf, too busy ‘winning.’ 

But right now, for all his supposed gains, Zayn doesn’t feel like he’s got very much to show for it but a broken heart, a broken car, and a couple of broken ribs.

He wants to text Doniya back now before he loses nerve; he knows himself all too well.  Still, it’s not as simple as it sounds.  He doesn’t want to burden her with how stupid he’s been and how his life’s gone to shit.  He shouldn’t tell her how much his ribs hurt, how even the bones that _aren’t_ broken still feel like they are.  It wouldn’t be fair to dump all that on her right now.  On the other hand, he can’t lie.  He can’t say he’s doing great.  That wouldn’t feel right either.

 

> _Miss you too :) x_

 

It’s a start anyway.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

The first instinct Zayn has when he sees Niall is to scream his fucking lungs out at Harry’s best friend.  Unfortunately, Zayn’s just had the right one patched-up, and he’s not in the mood to have another tube stuck in him.  Despite this, he can’t help but glower at the audacity of this kid, showing up in Zayn’s fucking hospital room after everything that’s happened. 

But when he sees Niall up close, everything he was planning to say flies out the window.

The generally happy-go-lucky guitarist looks like crap.  There’s really no other way to describe his appearance.  His eyes are puffy and red; they stand out against his already pale complexion.  He’s got at least three days’ growth on his normally clean-shaven face, his shirt doesn’t match his flannel, and his hair looks as if he’s been pulling at it.

Niall stops a few feet from the bed, and Zayn gestures towards a chair.  Zayn can feel Niall’s inquisitive eyes examining him, the IV he’s hooked up to, and the various machines surrounding his bed.  It’s a while before he plucks up enough courage to speak. 

“How are you feeling?”

Zayn stares up at the ceiling.  He’s already wishing his visitor would leave.  “Best I’ve felt all year.”

Niall exhales loudly.  “Please don’t blame me for what Harry and Louis did, okay?  I didn’t know about any of it.  If I thought something was going on, I would have told you.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything.  He realises Niall’s probably telling the truth, that there likely isn’t a two-faced bone in his entire body.  Even so, Zayn’s lying in a fucking hospital bed with a punctured lung and Niall’s the most convenient person to blame at the moment.

Niall clears his throat.  “I texted you.”

Zayn really doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to this.  It doesn’t sound like an accusation, but the kid’s gotta understand why Zayn didn’t reply to any of his messages. 

“Brought you something,” Niall continues, seemingly oblivious to how one-sided the conversation is.  He starts pulling something out of the plastic bag he’s carrying.  “You left your Beats headphones in Harry’s dressing room.  Thought you might like them here.  I also brought a charger; wasn’t sure if you had one or if you’ve been borrowing or whatever.”

“Wow…thanks.”  Zayn manages to muster a small smile.  “Appreciate it, man.”

Niall’s beaming as if he’s just won an Olympic medal.  Then, a shadow crosses his face, and Zayn braces for what’s next.  “I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but I’m worried about Harry.”

Zayn grunts.  “You’re right; I don’t.”

“Please, Zayn.”

Zayn purses his lips.  “Fine.  Tell me.”

Niall looks like he’s about to break into tears, and Zayn want to protect him even though he can’t do shit right now.  “He’s gone.  Disappeared.  Vanished.  Completely skipped town, for all I know.” 

“Did he say anything?”

“No,” Niall moans, voice scratchy.

It’s difficult for Zayn to hide his scepticism.  “You’re telling me he didn’t say _anything_?”

“Well, no he told me what happened, like,” Niall admits.  “He said you found out that he’d been seeing you because Louis asked him to or something?  Like, you were a professional gambler and it was some kind of a setup…I don’t know it was hard for me to follow.  _Are_ you a professional gambler, Zayn?”  Niall doesn’t seem angry that Zayn lied to him, just confused.  It’s also clear he was just as in the dark as Zayn was.  Even more so. 

“Yeah, I am.  I’m a blackjack player,” Zayn confesses, “but it’s best if it doesn’t get around, if you know what I mean.”

Niall seems to understand.  “Of course.  You could’ve just told me, you know.”

“No offence but I don’t tell anyone.”  Zayn scratches at his beard.  He can’t wait until he’s able to shave it or at least clean it up a bit.  “I didn’t even tell Harry actually.  He just seemed to know--or didn’t ask questions as to why I was always gambling so much.”  He laughs bitterly.  “Now I know why--he already knew I was an Advantage Player.  Louis had told him everything before I even met him.  That was why he probably singled me out in the crowd.  _Fuck._ ”  Zayn winces and grabs his side.  He’s not sure if it’s pain from reliving a nightmarish memory or if it’s the actual physical pain that makes him feel like his body’s about to rip apart.

“You okay, mate?”  Niall’s up on his feet but Zayn waves him down again.

“I’m fine.  My ribs hurt once a while, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”  Niall chews on his lip.  “I don’t know if you heard but Louis was bragging about fucking you up, and I…well, I sort of reported him.  As it turned out, the police already knew.  Someone had reported him before I did so my evidence just backed up what they already knew.”

“No, I didn’t hear.”  Part of him was glad and another part was wary about being mixed up in a police investigation.  The next words out of Niall’s mouth made him feel infinitely better about the whole situation though.

“Yeah, but Louis left before they could do anything about it--three days ago,” Niall informs him.  “I guess it’s just a misdemeanour right now so I think there’s little chance they’ll look for him.  I’m sure he’ll just start again somewhere else.  That would be his style.”

“So when did Harry leave?”

“Three days ago.”

Zayn can’t contain his astonishment.  “He ran off with Louis?”  Something strange pulls at his chest.

“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Niall rushes to reply.  “They…he’s not in love with Louis.  I’m sure of that.”

“How could you possibly know that, Niall?”

“Because he’s in love with you.”

Zayn snorts so loud his side stings again.  “Yeah, sure.  Whatever, bro.”

Niall shrugs his shoulders.  “Well, that’s how I always saw it at least.”

“So what he’d tell you before he left?”

Niall leg is jittering as if he’d thrown back one too many Red Bulls.  “I don’t know, just said he needed to take some time or whatever.  I wasn’t sure what that meant so I let him go.  He texted me the next day saying he wasn’t coming back for at least a week and that this mate of ours was going to fill in for him at the Oasis.  He had it cleared with the lounge manager and everything.”

“Maybe he’s just holed up in his apartment,” Zayn suggests, wracking his brain.  Personally, he doesn’t really give two fucks where the lounge singer is, but he hates to see Niall so distraught.  “Why don’t you check up on him there?”

Niall scrunches his nose and stares back at Zayn like he’s a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.  “Harry and I are flatmates, Zayn.  Sort of figured you knew that…?”

“No, he never told me,” Zayn humphs.  “Apparently, there was a lot of shit he never told me.”  

“Yeah,” Niall replies glumly.  “Anyway, that’s why I’m so bothered, because he hasn’t been home and hasn’t been at the lounge.  Like, I know he said he was alright, but I’m not sure if I believe him.  I’m worried he’s going to do something stupid.”  Niall covers his mouth with his hand.  He manages to pull himself together quickly though and plough on.  “I came here because I was hoping you might be able to suggest some place he might be.  I also wanted to apologise for everything.  It’s _awful_ what they did to you.  I can’t believe Harry acted that way.  I couldn’t even look him in the eye after he told me what happened.”

Zayn swallows.  “That’s probably why he left.”

“Yeah, might be,” Niall agrees before the little colour he had drains from his face.  “Bloody hell.”    

“What is it?”

Niall looks absolutely tormented now.  “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but Harry wasn’t in the best state when he left.  I found him passed out in the dressing room that last night you were at the Oasis.  I was able to revive him quickly, and he assured me it was just an accident but….”

“Shit, I didn’t know.”

“Anyway, if you have any idea where he might go to clear his head, let me know, yeah?”

Zayn’s heart starts pounding in his chest.  “Is that what he said?  That he wanted to ‘clear his head?’”

“Yeah, why?”  There’s a glimmer of hope in Niall’s eyes for the first time today.

Zayn crosses his fingers.  He hopes he’s right.  He _has_ to be right.  “Because I think I might know where he is.”

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Zayn’s always had a good memory.  As a matter of fact, it’s almost photographic--it was when he was a kid anyway.  He’d be able to look at charts and tables or even pages of poetry in a book and be able to remember them with ease.  In those days, he didn’t know having such a great retention for random facts and information could be such a lucrative asset.  He just thought it was something everyone could do.  Yeah, he might have lost some of the photographic component, but he’s improved his memory in other ways through exercise and discipline.

Zayn’s always had a good memory.

That’s why he really wasn’t surprised when he was able to make the connection between what Niall said about Harry needing to go someplace to clear his head and what Harry had shared with him the day of their date--their only date really.  Harry had told him he’d often go up to the lookout point to do just that.  Therefore, Harry had to be there. 

Or, at least, he had to be around there.  Harry was sure to have stopped in the diner if he was in the area.  Zayn also remembered seeing a hotel on the way up to the cliff.  He told Niall to ask around there as well.  Someone was bound to recognise the long-haired singer with the flamboyant fashion sense.  

Yes, if Niall took a photo of his roommate and put in a little elbow grease, it was a cinch he’d discover wherever Harry was laying up.  That was, if Harry was still in Vegas.  Because no matter how certain Niall was that Harry wouldn’t run off with the asshole of the century, the timing of their dual departure left Zayn with a bad taste in his mouth.  Besides, Niall said himself that he had never dreamed Harry capable of the way he’d treated Zayn.  It showed that the guitarist wasn’t completely fallible.  Maybe he had blinders on when it came to the chestnut-haired lounge singer.

Zayn could definitely identify with that.

Zayn’s always had a good memory.  It was a curse at times though.  It was hard never being able to forget things that wanted forgetting.  He remembered reading a Sherlock Holmes story when he was younger where Holmes had stated his brain was like an attic, that he stocked it with everything he deemed necessary--no less, no more.  But the great detective was wrong.  The brain didn’t work that way--not according to the articles on brain research he’d come across in high school.  There was no limit to what the brain could contain really.  You couldn’t just forget something because you wanted to, because your memory had reached some maximum storage level like a freaking iPhone or something.  No, all the undesirable memories Zayn collected through the years just stayed there, fucking him up at every turn.  

Zayn’s always had a good memory.  That’s why he remembered verbatim what Harry said in the car that night.  That’s why he was never going to forget Harry Styles nor the pain he felt when he learned of Harry’s betrayal. 

So when Niall calls him a couple days later and reports that no one’s seen Harry in the area Zayn told him to search, Zayn shouldn’t be as upset as he is.  He really shouldn’t.  After all, he knows where Harry is (or _who_ he’s with at any rate).  He recalls the secretive looks the two shared on a regular basis, looks that he saw but was too much of a fool to read more into.  Harry’s run off with Louis.  Even Niall is beginning to admit it to himself.  It’s the only other obvious conclusion. 

Zayn’s always had a good memory, but sometimes he wishes he didn’t.

 

### ♠♥♦♣  

 

It’s early evening by the time Zayn returns to his apartment.  It had taken hours for the checkout process and for the pharmacy to fulfil three fucking prescriptions.  In all fairness, he should be happy he was able to leave today at all.  The hospital wanted to keep him another night “for observation,” but after a week, Zayn was more than done with prodding nurses and questioning doctors. 

The taxi ride had been hell, every bump the driver had sped over had felt like a personal attack, but he just gritted his teeth and dealt with it.  A taxi was the best option.  He didn’t want to bother anyone he knew.  Zayn Malik isn’t the type to ask for favours. 

Zayn Malik doesn’t need anyone.

After he turns the lock and switches on the light, he breathes a huge sigh of relief.  Everything’s in order.  Everything’s in its right place.

He’d been worried he might have left the apartment a bit of a mess with the state of mind he’d been in the last time he walked out this door.  Honestly, the thought had been plaguing him the entire time he was recovering in hospital, like a pestering mosquito flying around his ear.

But that’s not the case at all.  The bookcases are in perfect order.  The kitchen is clean, all dishes stowed safely away in their proper places.  His one plant in the window sill looks remarkably healthy even though it’s had to be a week (or longer) since he’s watered it.  Everything is spotless.  You’d never even know he’s been gone.

But then he enters the bedroom, and he loses the false security he’d been carrying only moments ago because everything isn’t in its proper place in here.  Not be a fucking mile.

There’s a body-shaped lump on the bed, and he doesn’t need to lift the sheet to see who it is.  He’d know that outline anywhere.

Zayn yanks the sheet down angrily.  “How the fuck’d you get in here?”

Harry’s got a deer-in-headlights look in his eyes.  They gradually soften as Zayn waits for him to explain himself.  “I have a key.  You gave it to me, remember?”

Of course he does.  Zayn remembers everything.  It just hadn’t crossed his mind with everything else that’s happened.  He feels stupid now.  He should’ve thought of that.

Then again, he just didn’t think Harry would use it, would want to come here.  Zayn would think his apartment would be the last place Harry would squat.  He didn’t think the singer would dare show his face again here. 

But apparently, he was mistaken.

“Let’s try this again,” Zayn states as calmly as he can under the circumstances.  He breathes in through his nostrils and tries to list reasons why he shouldn’t throw Harry off the balcony.  All he can come up with though is that he doesn’t think he’d like prison food.  “ _Why_ the fuck are you here?”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”  Harry sits up in bed-- _Zayn’s_ bed.  The usually charismatic boy looks dead.  He’s thinner, paler.  He looks even worse than when Zayn saw him last.  Zayn hadn’t thought that was possible.

“Just a thought…why didn’t you crash at _your_ fucking apartment?”  

Harry blinks a few times.  He’s the picture of a guileless child who can’t figure out what he’s done wrong when he brings his mom a bouquet of flowers he’s picked from the neighbours’ gardens.  “I needed a place where I could hide away for a week or whatever,” Harry tells him, pulling his knees to his chest.  “There were too many people around Niall’s, too many questions from the casino and from Niall and Louis.  I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

“Louis’ gone.  Left the same day you did.”  Zayn scans the room suspiciously.  There’s no sign of anyone else though.

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

Zayn’s not sure if he should believe this, but he’s too worn out to cross-examine him.  “Well, I hope your stay at the Malik Inn was comfortable.”  His voice drips with sarcasm.

“It could have been better, I suppose,” Harry answers slowly, not really looking at Zayn.  He’s not really looking anywhere.  “I’ve spent the majority of time in bed--detoxing.”

“They have places for that, you know?  Rehabs and hospitals and all that shit.”

Harry shrugs.  “I’ve done this once before by myself.  I just needed a safe place to stay, like I was saying.  A place I felt comfortable.”

Zayn’s trying not to lose his cool completely as he stares down at Harry.  The idea of throwing him off the balcony is becoming increasingly attractive.  “Glad I could oblige.  Of course, it would’ve been cool if you asked me first, but I guess that’s not your style.”

“Sorry.”  Harry’s voice sounds hollow.  Zayn’s almost glad even though he’s not sure why the younger boy’s so upset--maybe it’s because of the lovers’ spat he’d had with Louis.  Whatever the cause, it means he knows how Zayn feels now, how Harry _made_ him feel.

But when Zayn looks gloatingly into the younger boy’s eyes, he loses some of the schadenfreude he was previously feeling.  He’s almost ashamed by it.  “Well, um, thanks for watering my plant.”

It seems like a really stupid, inconsequential thing to say at the moment, but Harry’s face brightens immediately.  “Yeah, I watered it every day even when I wasn’t feeling well because it’s the only green you have in the apartment, and I thought it would be a shame if it died.  I get so sad when plants die, you know?  It’s such an awful waste.”

Zayn sits at the end of the bed and bites his lip.  He can’t look at Harry anymore.

“Yeah, I tried to keep everything just so,” Harry prattles on like nothing’s happened.  “I know how massively important that is to you anyway, but I thought it would be extra important since you’d just be getting out of the hospital and all.”

Zayn’s surprised Harry even noticed that about him.  Zayn’s learned to keep it under wraps, and it’s not like Harry really was interested in him in the first place.  Harry was only interested in double-dealing, in using him for sex, and his apartment, and whatever else.  He wonders if Harry got off on how oblivious Zayn had been the entire time.

The _entire_ fucking time.

Zayn’s blood boils in his veins again.  He can’t deal with this anymore.  “Get the fuck out,” he growls at the wall.

“Listen, I know you hate me, and you should.  Fuck, _I_ hate me.”  Harry’s voice quavers slightly, but Zayn doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy for him.  If Harry feels guilty now, he’s brought it upon himself.  “But if you think I had anything to do with what Louis’ punks did to you, you’re wrong.  I’d never go that far, Zayn.  I swear to you I’d never--”

“I don’t care,” Zayn cuts him off, rising to his feet angrily.  “I honestly don’t care anymore.  What’s done is done.  Now, I expect you to gather your stuff and leave first thing tomorrow morning--got it?  You’re going to walk out that fucking door and never bother me again.”  Zayn laughs bitterly.  “But that’s your thing--isn’t it, Harry?” he adds scathingly, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks softly.

“Sneaking out in the middle of the night of course; sneaking out before I wake up.  It’s what you do.”

Harry trips to his feet.  “Zayn--”

“Oh, fuck off, Harry.  I’m glad you’re clean and sober, but I’m not going to fall for your shit again.  You can sleep on the couch if you like--here.”  Zayn tosses him a pillow off the bed.  “And call Niall because he deserves better than this shit.  Just tell him you’re not dead at least.  Fucking _hell,_ Harry.”

Harry grabs a few things out of his bag and trudges out of the room without another word.  Zayn’s fine with that.  Everything hurts, and he just wants to lay down and make it all go away. 

But he just can’t win.  His pillows smell like mango, and it’s not fucking fair. 

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Zayn’s barely awake, but he can hear it--the low incessant wailing.  It sounds like a banshee or the product of too many drinks and an overactive imagination.  Except he didn’t drink last night and with every moment, he’s coming closer and closer to the realisation that he’s awake and the noise is coming from his bathroom.

It isn’t human, the sound.  Zayn’s afraid that some kind of an animal’s got into the apartment when his brain disentangles the noise with another sound, that of pipes and running water.  Gingerly, he rises and tiptoes closer to the source.  His skin crawls as it dawns on him that someone’s in the shower.  _His_ shower.

Harry.

_Fuck._

Zayn had almost forgotten the other boy was here.  He paces outside the door, wondering what he should do.  Harry sounds in pain, like someone’s torturing him.  After the other night, Zayn knows exactly what that feels like.  His body’s still a chessboard of bruises and his ribcage feels like it’s on fire half the time. 

Like right now, for instance.

But he forgets all that when a high-pitched wail rings out, curdling the blood in his veins as his hand shakily grips the doorknob and turns.

“Alright, Harry?”  His voice scratches in his throat.  It’s all worry and not enough volume.  “Harry, you okay?”

Nothing, only the drone of plumbing. 

He pushes the door open and steps into the bathroom.  He can hear better now, hear the gentle droplets rain down from his waterfall showerhead.  The soothing sound mixes with the harsh, heartrending noises rising again from his former lover’s chest. 

Zayn stops cold.  It’s too much.  He can’t deal with this right now--not when he’s broken, too.  Not when Harry’s the one who as good as broke him. 

At the same time, he can’t stand to hear the sobbing anymore--because that’s what it is.  He needs to turn around, needs to hide under the blankets and cover his head with a pillow until the pain no longer reaches his ears and registers in every sinew. 

But he’s not doing that.  No, he’s pulling off his shirt, stepping out of his boxers.  His eyes are fixed on the grey curtain separating them.  Two lonely souls in pain.  His feet propel him forward. 

He pushes the curtain aside and is confused at first.  Harry’s not there.  But then he sees him, crouched in the corner of Zayn’s luxury shower, knees pulled to his chest like a cowering animal.  Harry’s head is buried between them, hands covering the face Zayn longs to see.

He sinks down on the floor of the shower next to Harry and the other boy notices him for the first time with a gasp.  Harry goes to scramble to his feet, but Zayn stops him with his eyes before slinging an arm around his broad shoulders.  He pulls Harry to him, watches as water mixes with the tears streaming down the younger boy’s face.  He tugs Harry closer still, and it seems to help because the crying isn’t so desperate now.

“Don’t leave me,” Harry whispers so softly Zayn can barely hear him with the noise of the shower.

“Harry, I can’t…don’t do this.  Don’t pretend,” Zayn chokes out.  He strokes the other boy’s hair lovingly, lets the water rush over them. 

Then, without warning, lips meet his.  They’re wanton and needy, and Zayn doesn’t question a thing, just accepts them.  He would do anything for Harry.  He’d do anything to make him feel better no matter how much it killed him.  He’s all in, and he should’ve surrendered his hand long ago.

Harry’s pulling him to his feet.  “Make me feel good, Zayn,” he whispers before sucking on a spot on Zayn’s neck just above his collarbone.  “Make me feel good one more time.”

Zayn should walk away, but he can’t--not when Harry’s naked and wet and vulnerable.  Not when Harry’s begging for his touch.  Not when Harry’s rutting against him and their cocks are slotting together so deliciously.  He moves his hand to open up the younger boy, but Harry swats it away.

“I’m good; stretched myself earlier thinking of you, remembering your touch.”

It goes straight to his dick.  He’s only human after all.  The really pathetic thing is Zayn doesn’t even care if it’s a lie--it feels that good to hear Harry say it _._

Next thing he knows, Harry’s on his knees and Zayn’s slowly feeding him his length.  With his free hand, he smooths back Harry’s wet hair so he can look into his eyes.  They stare up at him with want and desire and…something else.  It’s so easy to pretend there’s something more behind those eyes when Harry looks at him like this.

Zayn hisses as Harry starts humming around him.  He throws his head back and finds himself shivering despite the nearly scalding water jetting down and the warm mouth enveloping his dick.  It’s becoming too much so he gently pushes Harry off him. 

It’s then that Harry notices.  Zayn can tell because the other boy takes a step back, scanning Zayn’s bruised torso as his eyes widen and a hand reflexively covers his mouth.  But then Harry’s pressing against him again, nestling his head into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

Swollen lips find his again.  This time, Zayn tastes himself on those lips.  This time, the kiss is sweeter.  It’s an apology and a goodbye all wrapped up into one. 

“Make me feel good,” Harry moans against Zayn’s neck.  “Make me feel good one last time.”

Harry doesn’t have to ask again because Zayn’s already shoving him up against the wall.  Harry’s cheek presses flat against the tile, and soft whines echo off the mosaic as Zayn pushes into him.  As he waits for a greenlight, Zayn peppers kisses along Harry’s spine and across his neck and shoulders.  Finally, Harry grunts and arches backwards.  Water from the showerhead drips from his hair and forms winding rivers traversing the beautiful lines of his back.

Zayn slowly draws his hips back and pivots them forward in one fluid movement.  His eyes flutter as his injured muscles struggle to work again.  Or maybe it’s just because of how good it feels to have Harry’s tightness around him once more. 

Just one more time.

Soon, Zayn quickens the pace.  He’s chasing after his orgasm, egged on by Harry’s garbled, porn-worthy pleas of “faster,” “harder,” and “deeper.”  Harry has to brace himself, slapping both palms flat against the wall as Zayn batters into him.

Zayn’s legs begin to shake from the effort so he leans against the larger boy.  His nose nuzzles against the nape of Harry’s neck; the scent of soap and skin and mango reach his nostrils.  They’re swathed in steam now, and it’s beginning to feel like a fucking sauna.   Zayn’s feeling dizzy, but they’re both so close to a release now.  He can’t stop.  Using what little energy he’s got left in the tank, he wraps a hand around Harry’s cock and begins fisting it.  Harry’s body responds at once, bucking back against him wildly.

With a desperate gurgle, Harry reaches his peak.  Streaks of white splash against the stone-coloured tiles in an almost artistic pattern.  He wishes he could admire it longer, but it’s already washing away and Zayn’s vision is beginning to cloud as he nears his own release.  A few sloppy thrusts and he’s there, somehow remembering to pull out just in time.

Heart palpitating, Zayn collapses back against the wall.  He fights to catch his breath between the suffocating steam and the sharp pain stabbing his side.  There are spots before his eyes, and he finds himself counting them:

_One…two…three…six…nine…twelve…fifteen…eighteen…_

_Twenty-one._

His knees give way, but he’s out before he even hits the ground.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“Feel any better?”

Zayn pries open his eyes and sees Harry hovering over him.  The younger boy’s brow is furrowed, forehead creased with worry lines.  He looks just as worn as Zayn feels. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Zayn manages before hissing at the stinging ache of his ribcage. 

“You passed out in the shower,” Harry explains, voice trembling.  He brushes a damp strand away from Zayn’s face like a mother would do to a sick child.  “I don’t know how I managed to catch you before you hit the tile.  I just saw something in your eyes that was…off.  Anyway, I was debating whether to call an ambulance or not.”

“No need, ’m fine,” Zayn grates out. 

“You sure?  You don’t look fine,” Harry says distrustfully.  “How bad did they hurt you, Zayn?  Why aren’t you still in the hospital?”

“No questions, remember?”  He sighs when he sees Harry’s face fall.  “I’m fine,” he insists.  “Look, it was just a dizzy spell.  I could do with some painkillers though.  They’re in the nightstand if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure, got it.”

Zayn allows his eyelids to drift shut.  He hears Harry pad towards the other side of the room and return a minute later, the pills rattling inside the bottle as he walks. 

“Ooh, oxycodone,” Harry reads before letting out a low whistle.  “They gave you the good shit, didn’t they?”

“Don’t even fucking think about taking any,” Zayn growls, eying him closely now.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Harry sniffs.  He sets the pills down and wraps his dripping hair in a towel.  “If you were listening last night, I just told you I quit all that shit cold turkey a week ago.  I’m not going to fuck it all up by popping some oxy’s--especially when you need them.  Jesus, Zayn.” 

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles back.  He wants to ask Harry why he’s even still here, but it seems tactless after what just happened.  “I should probably thank you, by the way--for what you did in the shower, I mean.”

There’s a twinkle in Harry’s eyes and a barely suppressed smirk on his now rosy lips.  “I should probably thank _you,_ by the way--for what you did in the shower, I mean.”

Zayn starts to laugh despite himself but grimaces as the pain in his side returns in full force.  

“Come on.  Let’s get you more comfortable,” Harry suggests, propping a couple of pillows behind Zayn’s back to help him sit up a bit more.  “That better?”

Zayn can only nod weakly.  Harry turns away from him then, and Zayn can’t help but watch the muscles of Harry’s back as he does the simple action of opening a prescription bottle.  Harry extracts a couple of pills and loosens the cap of the water bottle Zayn hadn’t even seen him get.  He hands everything over to Zayn before turning away again to readjust the towel that has slipped low on his lips.  The sight makes Zayn’s dick twitch, and really, that’s the last fucking thing Zayn should be thinking about right now with how he’s feeling.

Mentally scolding himself, he takes both pills, washes them down with a swig of water, and rests back against the pillows.  He can hear Harry singing some tune from the Beatles’ White Album as he gets dressed.  It’s incredibly soothing, like a lullaby.

 

> _“Who knows how long I’ve loved you?_
> 
> _You know I love you still._
> 
> _Will I wait a lonely lifetime?_
> 
> _If you want me to, I will.”_

 

Zayn closes his eyes and lets his thoughts wander.  He sees green eyes, always green eyes.  He’s watching Harry perform at the Oasis; they’re sipping shakes at the diner; he’s tasting the cherry on Harry’s lips as they share a long kiss; he’s comforting Harry as he breaks into a thousand pieces and Zayn can’t even begin to understand why….

He remembers one such night.  The words Harry spoke haunt Zayn now, fill him with an incredible sadness:

 

 _“I’m no good for you, babe,” Harry falters.  “This won’t turn out well--I promise you that.  You should get out while you can.”_  

_“If it’s so bad,” Zayn reasons, “why don’t you end it?”_

_“Because I’m selfish,” Harry answers straight away, “and weak.  Because I want this to last as long as it can--even if it kills me when it’s over.”_

_“You don’t know for sure how this is going to end, Harry.”_

_“Yes, I do actually.  You’re gonna hate me.”_

_“No, I won’t,” Zayn promises, pulling Harry in close.  There’s something so endearing about him now.  He wishes he could hold on to this boy forever.  Even though he’s talking rubbish, there’s still a genuine element of emotion in Harry’s words.  It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling Zayn he cares about him, that they mean something, and he doesn’t want that something to end.  “I could never hate you, Harry.”_

_“Mark my words, you will.”_

_Zayn tries to think of a way to console him, but Harry isn’t done yet.  “The funny thing is…it’s all your fault, really,” he muses.  His speech is getting even slower than usual as his words begin to slur together.  Zayn knows it’s due to sheer physical and emotional exhaustion as much as the wine he drank earlier.  “I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, Zayn.  That wasn’t part of the plan.”_

A door slams from far off, and it takes Zayn a minute to realise it doesn’t belong to the scene replaying in his head.  A wave of panic washes over him as he scans the room and discovers Harry isn’t there. 

“Harry?!” he cries out.  His heart thuds as he awaits an answer.  “Harry, you there?”  He eases himself up off the bed, cradling his side as he does so.  The pain’s much more bearable now that the painkillers have set in, and his lungs don’t feel as constricted. 

When Zayn catches his breath, he looks about.  It just confirms what he already knew:  Harry’s gone.  Zayn asked him to leave and he, for once, listened. 

It’s a terrible feeling, realising you’ve made a massive mistake a fraction too late.  He should’ve given Harry a chance to explain, but he didn’t.  It probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.  Still, a small voice in his head nags him.  He never got Harry’s side of the story, and he should have.  Zayn owed him that much, if nothing else. Unfortunately, his pride, anger, and shock had overshadowed all else. 

He staggers into the main room.  Harry’s words are taunting him now:

 

_“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you.  That wasn’t part of the plan.”_

Before Zayn had thought Harry was just being overly dramatic, his usual grandiose self.  Now in hindsight, the words take on a whole new meaning.  Harry must have been talking about the plan with Louis.  He wasn’t supposed to fall for Zayn…but he did. 

It was clear even then that Harry knew that what they had was doomed.  Indeed, the damage had already been done by the time Harry spoke those words.  And Harry had gotten it right--Zayn _did_ hate him for what he did…

But he also never stopped loving him.

And if Niall was anything to go by, Harry loved him.  As outrageous as it seemed, that’s what Niall claimed.  As Harry’s friend, bandmate, and roommate, Niall surely understood Harry better than anyone else.  Niall saw love there--not indifference or lust or some baser emotion.

He saw _love_.

Perhaps Zayn’s just clutching at straws now, but he can’t help but wonder if there might be some explanation for Harry’s behaviour.  He’s not sure if he could trust Harry again, if they could repair the damage that’s been done.  Still, he can’t just let the man he loves walk away with so many questions unanswered.

But unfortunately, that’s precisely what he just did.

He feels numb as he picks up his phone on instinct.  Leaning against the counter, he dials the one person he thinks might be able to help him get his head sorted.  He hasn’t physically spoken to her in months, and it’s been _years_ since they’ve had any real, meaningful conversation.  Still, he hopes she won’t turn him away. 

She answers on the second ring.  She hasn’t even said anything before a cacophony of words start spilling out of his mouth:

“Doniya, fuck, I think I messed up so bad, and I literally don’t know where else to go and--“

“Whoa,” she interrupts him, “slow down, _meri pyar_.  Now take a deep breath and start from the beginning.

And so he does.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“Harry’s in love with you, Zayn.”

That’s Doniya’s verdict, her only comment after Zayn tells her everything that’s happened.  Sure, he glossed over some of the more cringe-worthy instances and downplayed the beating he received from Louis’ stooges, but apart from that, he’s been completely honest with her. 

“You think so?” Zayn says weakly.  He’s not sure that’s what he wanted to hear.

“Yes, Zayn.  I’m just an outsider looking in, but I think it’s pretty clear that Harry loves you.  You have to be willing to see that.”  She takes a hesitant breath and Zayn waits on pins and needles for her to continue.  “But I’m even more sure of something else.”

“What’s that?” Zayn croaks out.  His throat feels raw from talking so much, and the day’s been both physically and emotionally draining. 

“That you love this boy with every part of your heart and that you will never forgive yourself if you don’t confess to him exactly how you feel.”

“But what about what he did to me, Doni?” Zayn whines.  “Why would he purposely sabotage me if he loves me so much?  It doesn’t make sense!”

“Those are questions you’ll have to ask him, Zayn.”

Zayn sighs resignedly.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I am right, Z.,” Doniya replies patiently.  “Now call him…and do it soon.  You never know when it’ll be too late.”

“Okay.  Thanks, Doniya.”

“You’re welcome, baby brother.  Take care of yourself and talk to you soon.”  She places special emphasis on the word ‘soon,’ and really, Zayn can’t blame her.

After Zayn hangs up, he immediately brings up Harry’s number in his contacts.  He hesitates only briefly before pressing ‘send.’

“ _The number you have dialled has been disconnected or is no longer in service.  Please check the number and dial again.”_

He slumps in the middle of the floor and starts sobbing.  He doesn’t even have enough energy to get to a fucking chair.  He fucked up and there’s no going back now.

He’s never going to see Harry again.

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

Zayn’s awakened by the sound of a key turning in a lock.  He hears a familiar voice, and he’s swears he’s dreaming.  He must be.

“Zayn, you okay?  Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Zayn declares in a small voice.  His back hurts now, and his whole body’s stiff as nails.  He really wishes he would’ve found his bed or at least the sofa before he decided to have a complete meltdown. 

Harry’s towering over him, a look of concern on his face.  “You should be in bed.”

“I thought you left,” Zayn says dumbly, lifting himself into a sitting position.

“Why are you on the floor?  Did you take more than the pills I gave you?” Harry demands.

“No, I thought you left,” Zayn repeats, swallowing a lump in his throat this time.  “I thought you left…for good.”

Harry’s looking at him strangely.  “No, I just went to the store to get coffee, Zayn.  You’re all out of Sumatra, and I know how you get when you have to drink a light roast, God forbid.  I picked up a couple of other things as well.”  Harry sets the grocery bags on the counter.  “By the way, I wouldn’t leave for good without telling you,” he huffs in annoyance.  “I know you think I’m a complete douche, and I probably deserve your low expectations but--”

“But all your things,” Zayn interrupts, “your clothes and whatever--they’re gone.”

“Yes, I packed up while you were sleeping.  My bag’s sitting next to the dresser…in your bedroom,” Harry adds.  “You know--that place where you supposed to be taking a nap?”  Harry starts unpacking the grocery bags, putting the milk and eggs in the refrigerator and setting a large bunch of bananas on the counter.  He also bought a bag of gummy bears and a box of Zayn’s favourite cereal because of course he did. 

Harry notices things.  Zayn’s just starting to realise that.

“Zayn, I’m sorry but I don’t get it.”  Harry seems almost angry now.  “Why are you so strung out?  You asked me to leave today, remember?  I’d think you’d be celebrating if I skipped out early, just saying.”

Zayn is still trying to get his head wrapped around the fact that Harry’s here in front of him when he should be gone.  “But you changed your number…?”

“Yeah, I had a lot of assholes I didn’t want calling me,” Harry responds gruffly.  “I wiped everything actually.  I had a lot of numbers I didn’t need on speed dial when I was going through detox, if you know what I mean.”  He pauses a moment as a new thought hits him.  “But I changed my number like a week and a half ago, Zayn.  Niall knew--even if I was shitty about getting back to him.  You didn’t know?”  Harry bites his lip.  There’s a sad look in his eyes.  “I guess that means you never tried to call then.  It’s understandable.”

“Harry, we should talk--”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry cuts him off.  There’s a rasp in his voice that tells Zayn everything he wants to know.  “You don’t have to say it again.  I’ve intruded on you enough.  I’ll just get my things together and go.  If you want, I can write my number down in case you need something, yeah?” 

Zayn’s frozen.  He can’t say a word even though every neuron in his body is screaming for Harry to stay.

Harry misinterprets his silence for something else though.  “Yeah, you’re right.  It’s probably better if we just make a clean break.  I’d hate me, too.”  Harry disappears into the bedroom and re-emerges with his bag in hand.  He stops for only a moment to sling the strap over his shoulder before continuing on to the front door.  “I’ll tell Niall to check in with you if that’s okay.  We’re roommates, but I’m assuming he told you that already.”

Everything’s out of control.  Harry is leaving and everything’s out of control.  It’s like Zayn’s observing an object speed downhill, gathering momentum as it goes.  He’s powerless to stop it, powerless to change its course.  All Zayn can really do is watch from his spot on the floor.

“Bye, Zayn,” Harry says with a choking cough.  “I’m sorry for…for everything.” 

There’s a deafening thump as the door shuts.  It feels like end of something.  It _is_ the end of something.

But then it’s as if Zayn’s waking up from a terrible nightmare.  He scrambles to his feet and catapults out the door.  He doesn’t feel any pain now, only a burning in his chest which propels him forward.

He has to get to Harry.  He has to find Harry.

Zayn spots him waiting for the elevator.  He runs towards the boy’s back as the elevator doors open at the same time in a cruel twist of fate. 

“Stop!” 

Zayn slows to avoid crashing into the other boy as he turns towards him.  Harry’s looking at him expectantly, waiting while Zayn struggles to catch his breath.  His lungs feel as if they’re on fire, but he doesn’t have time to be weak right now.  Not when the boy he loves is standing in front of him.

The elevator doors close automatically behind Harry.  It’s a temporary reprieve, but Zayn will take whatever he can get.

“Zayn, what are you doing?” Harry demands.  He seems agistated.  “Look, I can tell you’re hurt worse than you’ve let on.  You shouldn’t be running through the halls.  Besides,” Harry glances in both directions, “you’re not even dressed, for God’s sakes.”  Harry waves a hand at Zayn’s rumpled t-shirt and boxers.  “Get back to your apartment before someone sees you.  There’s gotta be some kind of dress code in a place like this.”

“Not without you,” Zayn returns stubbornly. 

“Don’t, Zayn.  Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”  Harry spins around before Zayn can object, stabbing the ‘down’ button repeatedly with his finger. 

Zayn takes a deep breath and plays his ace.  He can’t afford to not show his hand at this point.  “Harry, I love you.”

The elevator arrives with a ding, but Harry’s not moving even after the doors open.  When he finally turns back around, there are tears staining his cheeks.  “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I love you, Harry.”  Zayn marvels at how much easier it is to say the second time. 

Harry combs both hands through his hair.  “But you can’t….  You don’t know what you’re saying, Zayn.”

“Yes, I do,” Zayn insists.  “I love you, and I don’t want you to go.  Just stay for now; we can deal with everything later.  I just can’t let you leave because I love you, and I think--I’m pretty sure actually--that you love me, too.  Please say you’ll stay…just a little longer even.  Just long enough so we can figure this all out, yeah?”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Harry tells him, looking away.  “What you heard with Louis and me…it was all true.”

This cuts deep.  Still, Zayn’s sure Harry isn’t giving him the whole story.  He’s also becoming very sure of something else.  “Listen, I don’t care.  Just answer one question.  That’s all I need to know right now.  Like I said, the rest we can deal with later.”

Harry brushes an arc on the floor with the tip of his scuffed-up boot.  He still refuses to look at Zayn.  “Yeah, what is it?”

“Do you love me?”

“Zayn, I plotted against you.”  Harry finally meets his gaze.  He’s pleading with him now.  “I hurt you.  I shouldn’t have come back.  You were right.  It was a mistake.”

“Answer the question, Harry.”

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath.  His soul is completely exposed, lain bare before the older boy for the first time.  “Yes, I love you.  Of course I do.  How could I not love you?”

It’s everything Zayn’s ever wanted to hear.  It’s all he really needs to hear.  “Good,” he musters out, “the rest can solve itself then.  Just say you’ll stay…for a while longer.”

“Yes,” Harry manages through fresh tears, “I’ll stay.”

Zayn closes his eyes and feels himself sway slightly on his feet.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Harry whispers, curling a supportive arm around his lover’s waist.  Zayn leans against him, lets the taller boy lead him back to his apartment. 

“Promise you’ll be here when I wake up,” Zayn yawns as Harry tucks him into bed a minute later.  Harry doesn’t answer right away so Zayn grabs at his arm.  “Say you’ll be here,” he urges with a quiet intensity, not even bothering to conceal his own insecurity. 

Harry can’t leave before they talk.  He just can’t.

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” Harry vows.  He’s fully dressed, but he just slips off his boots and crawls into bed next to Zayn anyway.  “For as long as you want me around, I’ll be here.”

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

They barely get out of bed for the next week.

They can’t keep their hands off each other.  That’s never changed really.  But unlike in the past, it’s all soft touches and embraces that say ‘always’ instead of ‘now.’

The first day, they sleep.  They don’t speak at all.  Zayn needs the rest and so does Harry, if he’s honest.  They’re both recovering. 

They have a lot to recover from.

The second day, Harry talks and Zayn listens.  Harry talks about his parents.  He talks about how everyone always said he got his smile from his mom and how she always cried buckets over commercials and homemade gifts from Harry and his sister.  He talks about baking pies with his dad every Sunday, how his father always had a ready supply of corny jokes for every occasion. 

He only talks briefly about the crash that killed them both instantly when Harry was twelve.

Harry talks some about growing up in foster care, about singing in bars and nightclubs when he was sixteen.  He talks about Gemma getting a scholarship to Stanford and how proud he was when he first heard; how proud he _still_ is.

On the third day, Zayn tells Harry about his own family.  He tells Harry that Doniya wants to meet him.  Harry says he’d like to meet her, too.

On the fourth day, Harry talks about how Gemma called him one day during her second semester.  She was about to lose her scholarship because of the number of hours she had to work just to pay for living expenses and additional fees above and beyond tuition.  Harry told her to stop working; he’d find a way to cover the difference.

And he did.

It was easy to make extra cash selling your body in Vegas.  The club owners always knew someone who knew someone who would pay good money for a boy who looked like Harry, for a boy who _moved_ like Harry.  It wasn’t really prostitution.  It wasn’t really an escort service.  It wasn’t really anything.  It was just a way to earn extra cash when he needed it. 

On the fifth day, Zayn tells Harry about Lauren.  He also tells him about Georgios.  Harry says he understands.  Zayn believes him.

On the sixth day, Harry talks about meeting Louis, about how he worked at a casino downtown where Harry sang on Thursday nights.  Louis offered another way for Harry to make money--by putting gamblers off their game.

It started off innocently, just cosying up to high rollers, distracting them with a hand on a thigh or a drink from a passing cocktail waitress.  It wasn’t a big deal.  The men--and sometimes women--could afford to lose the money.  Besides, Harry never had to see them again.  He wasn’t really hurting anyone--just making a small dent in their pocketbooks.  It didn’t seem all that wrong.  Not really.

Soon Louis was moving up in the casino hierarchy.  It wasn’t long before he secured a management position at the Oasis.  Two months later, Louis lined up an audition for Harry, Niall, and the rest of their band at the new casino.  They got the job.  It was a good gig, good enough where Harry shouldn’t have to supplement his income.

On the seventh day, they both leave the house for the first time.  Harry performs at the Oasis.  It’s his first night back in two weeks.  Niall’s missed him.  The management’s missed him.  His fans have missed him, too.  Zayn goes to pick up his Mustang.  It’s whole again--fixed almost like brand new.  Zayn then tidies up the apartment and does a couple of loads of laundry.  When he throws in the sheets, he no longer feels that heaviness in his chest.  He knows Harry’s coming back. 

Harry returns later that night.  After showering, he sits on the side of the bed and stares blankly at the wall.  Zayn tries to pull him close, but Harry won’t let him.  The singer needs to get something off his chest.  There’s a far-away look in his eyes when he begins talking. 

The first time Louis asked Harry to renew their ‘arrangement’ (this time at the Oasis), Harry did it as a favour to him.  After all, Louis was a big part of the reason why Harry was even working at the Oasis.  Soon though, Harry began to object.  He didn’t like cheating people anymore--especially now that Louis was targeting others, not just rich tourists and asshole businessmen looking for a good time. 

Louis had had a particularly bad day the night Zayn won big at the Oasis.  He could spot an Advantage Player from a mile off, and it was easy to make Zayn a scapegoat for the recent house losses at the tables.  He could also spot a guy who was infatuated with Harry.  It didn’t take long for the casino supervisor to put two and two together. 

Harry didn’t want to do it at first--it was more involved and less ethical than anything he’d ever agreed to before.  He flatly refused even after Louis threatened him.  But then Louis told him he’d call Gemma and tell her just how Harry had been earning the money to help her through school.  Gemma thought the world of her brother, and Harry couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing her like that.  Even worse, there was a good chance she’d drop out if she knew the truth. 

Harry wasn’t going to let that happen.

And so he agreed.  It became easier when he saw who the mark was.  He was physically attracted to Zayn and that made it more palatable somehow.  Besides, it was only going to be for a little while.  A month maybe.  He wasn’t supposed to drag it out like he did.  He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the mark.

“That wasn’t part of the plan?” Zayn offers when Harry pauses for a breath.  He can’t keep quiet any longer.  “So as I see it…Louis basically blackmailed you then?”

Harry looks at him for the first time that night.  “Yeah, I guess that’s what you’d call it.  It was still my decision though.  I still deceived you.  I still betrayed you over and over again.  That was me.”

“Yeah, but I understand why you did it.  It makes sense now.”  There’s something else he wants to ask, something he has to know.  He clears his throat and looks into his lover’s eyes.  “Harry, be honest.  Did Louis ever, um…did he, like, force you to…you know…?”  He doesn’t want to say it.  Fuck, he doesn’t even want to _think_ it.

Harry’s eyes widen when he gets it.  “No, never.  It was nothing like that, I swear.  We hadn’t hooked up for a while before you came into the picture.  I mean, he asked me a couple of times while I was ‘dating’ you, but I said ‘no’ and he never pushed it.”

Despite Harry’s assurances, Zayn still feels a pang of jealousy flare up in his breast.  He tries his best to keep it at bay.  “So why’d you two call it quits?”

“Louis met a girl, I think--not that we ever had anything serious.  It was just a convenience thing.”

Zayn swallows.  “Kind of like what we had?”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry says vehemently.  He clasps Zayn’s hand in his, and Zayn’s breath catches as he gazes into Harry’s eyes, now sparkling with a plethora of emotions.  “See, you and I--we only pretended that’s what it was.  It was always more than that, Zayn.  I’ve realised that for a long time now.”

“Since when?”

“Since that date you forced me to go on,” Harry returns without a moment’s hesitation.  “You didn’t want to fuck me at the lookout point, remember?”

Zayn frowns.  “You were upset.  Of course I didn’t want to…have sex with you or whatever.”

“Yeah, well…I just never had that before.”  Harry rubs the back of his neck.  His pupils dart around as he tries to find the right words.  “I never dated anyone who didn’t just want me for my body.  Most of the time, they didn’t even want _me_ ,” he acknowledges with a sad look.  “They wanted the other Harry Styles, the one writhing around on stage every other night.  I thought that was all you saw as well.”

“Fuck, you make me sound like a saint,” Zayn cringes.  “If you only knew what I was thinking the first time I saw you on that stage….”

“Now I’m not saying the physical part wasn’t there for me, too, of course,” Harry acknowledges, blushing a little as Zayn smirks.  “It was.  It was there from the moment Louis pointed you out from backstage, from the moment I first saw you.”  Harry licks his lips and Zayn waits patiently for him to continue.  “But that night at the lookout when you cared more about my well-being than I did myself…that was fucking scary, to be honest.  All I could think about was how you were the best thing that ever happened to me and how I’d fucked it up before it even began.”

Zayn nods solemnly.  “You tried to chase me off soon after, remember?  You told me I should get out and that it was all going to end badly.  I thought it was just the liquor talking.”

“You should have listened,” Harry concedes before smiling sheepishly.  “But I’m glad you didn’t.” 

Zayn bites his lip.  “Harry, I have to ask you….”

“Yes?”

“Is that why you did the drugs?  Because you felt guilty?”

“That was part of it, yeah,” Harry admits, studying the back of his hands.  “I hated what I was doing to you, felt like a snake in the grass.  It was hard enough at the beginning, but then it just became impossible.  Like, I wasn’t even trying to fuck you up for the last month or two.  I wasn’t even playing Louis’ game then; I was just trying to get out of my mind every way I could.  I didn’t feel as guilty then.  But I guess you watching me push you away night after night when you needed more than just a quick fuck--well, that ended up hurting you the most in the end.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t focus on anything, not with you self-destructing right in front of me.”

“I’m sorry.”  A tear rolls down Harry’s cheek and Zayn brushes it away with his thumb.

“No more apologies.  It’s over.  That’s all behind us now.”  Zayn lays back down, wincing a little on the way.  Even after two weeks, his side still hurts like fuck.  “I’ve got you--all of you--and that’s all that matters, Harry.”

Harry registers Zayn’s discomfort with a start.  He carefully straddles Zayn, placing a gentle kiss on his lips before peppering more kisses upon yellowish fading bruises.  It should be loving and sweet but Harry’s got his ass pushed up in the air, and it’s giving Zayn’s all sorts of ideas.  Unfortunately, he’s not able to execute any of them in his current condition.  Then Harry starts moving lower, licking a line down Zayn’s abdomen.

“That’s enough, Harry,” Zayn grunts, squirming a little as he adjusts himself. 

“Ah, is there another problem Nurse Harry needs to take care of?”  There’s a mischievous glint in Harry’s eyes and Zayn’s sure this boy is going to kill him. 

“You and your fucking roleplay,” he groans.  His hand hasn’t left his dick though. 

Harry cocks an eyebrow.  “Maybe I need to do a full physical examination.”

“I thought you were a nurse, not a doctor.  Get your weird-ass kinks straight, yeah?”

“I could be a…what are they called?”  Harry straightens up and snaps his fingers.  “Oh yeah--nurse practitioner!”

“Nurse practitioner?” Zayn echoes, making a face.  “There’s literally nothing sexy about the title ‘nurse practitioner.’”

“Fine,” Harry grumps, “I’ll just be a nurse then.”

“Good.  Then get off me because physical exams are out of your paygrade.  Besides I’m supposed to refrain from physical activity for another week at least.  I’m sure you remember what happened the last time.”

“Who said anything about physical activity, babe?” Harry asks coyly.  He’s got a finger clinging to the waistband of the older boy’s boxers, and Zayn’s skin immediately prickles with anticipation.  “But first, I’ve got to check your owie.” 

“I don’t have an ‘owie’ there, Harry,” Zayn grunts out. 

“I don’t know…,” Harry muses, quirking his head to his side.  “It looks pretty swollen to me.  Bet it’s painful.”

Zayn’s definitely hard now.  _Painfully_ hard.

“And you never know,” Harry adds, continuing to play with Zayn’s waistband while straddling him, “I might need to clean the wound.”  Harry’s tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, and a shudder runs through Zayn’s already quivering body.  “Now show Nurse Harry _exactly_ where it hurts….”

Yep.  Harry Styles is going to be the death of him.  Zayn might as well just resign himself to that fact now. 

 

### ♠♥♦♣

 

“Holy fuck, I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Zayn moans as Harry edges in closer to him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. 

But then Harry just chuckles like the demonic motherfucker he is.  It’s Harry’s birthday which is really the only reason Zayn agreed to do this.  They’re on the High Roller, an ‘observation wheel’ that supposedly offers the best views of Vegas.  Zayn can neither confirm nor deny that claim since the only view he’s seen so far is the inside of his palms.  Zayn doesn’t need to see, however, to know the whole thing is totally touristy or that it’s literally the last thing he would ever want to do considering he’s quite attached to having his feet on solid ground. 

“It says here,” Doniya states in a decidedly Hermione Granger sort-of-way, “that this is the tallest observation wheel in the world.”  Zayn loves his sister, but he can’t help thinking that maybe she ought to learn to keep information like that to herself.

“How big is it?” Harry inquires and Zayn really wants to punch his boyfriend.  Harry doesn’t need to encourage Doniya when she gets like this.  He really doesn’t.

Gemma seems similarly appalled, albeit for a different reason.  “ _How big is it_?” she guffaws.  “Really, Harry.  Why does size matter so much to boys?”

“Sorry, how _tall_ is it, Doniya?” Harry corrects himself.

“550 feet,” Doniya announces, like it’s a good thing or something.  Apparently, Zayn’s inherited all the good sense in the family.  He’s always suspected as much. 

“Did you hear that, Zayn?” Niall asks cheerily.  “It’s only 550 feet high.  That’s what…like fifty stories, right?  You could do that standing on your head!”

“Why the fuck would I want to do a headstand on this thing, Niall?”  Deep down, Zayn knows his friend’s just trying to be helpful, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s talking out of his ass right now.

“You know, Z.,” Doniya starts and Zayn can tell she’s already judging him, “I would’ve brought a blindfold for you if I knew you were just going to cover your eyes the whole time.”

Gemma snorts.  “From what Harry’s told me, they’ve already got one.”

Okay, now he really, _really_ wants to punch Harry.  “I swear to God, Harry--”

“What?” Harry protests like he hasn’t done a thing.  “I didn’t think you’d mind my telling my sister about what a healthy, creative, and active love life we have, babe.”  The bastard can barely get the words out he’s laughing so much.

Despite his present fears, Zayn can’t help feeling a twinge in his groin just thinking of coming home to the apartment a couple of weeks ago and finding Harry, naked in bed, wearing that silk blindfold and those ridiculous fuzzy blue handcuffs.

Yeah, that was a good night.

Last night was a good night, too.  Last night was Zayn’s early present to his boyfriend.  He remembers how Harry’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when Zayn explained how he wanted Harry to be his first, that he was sure, that he trusted his boyfriend completely.  Slowly, the uncertainty in Harry’s eyes turned to hunger as Zayn detailed everything he’d been imagining in his head for weeks now:  He didn’t just want Harry to top, he wanted Harry to use him, to _wreck_ him. 

And fuck if Zayn wasn’t surprised at how good it was.  He couldn’t believe how fantastic it felt taking Harry’s massive cock, feeling the fullness within him for the first time in his life.  It was fucking incredible. 

“Oi!” Niall shouts excitedly, and Zayn practically jumps out of his skin.  “You didn’t tell me you booked this during Happy Hour, Zayner!  Knew you were a top lad.” 

Zayn’s glad the others can’t read his mind as he tries to redirect the blood flow currently heading to his crotch.  He takes a deep breath, remembers that both his and Harry’s sister are here, and answers his friend.  “You’re just saying that because you’re trying to get on my good side.”

“Yeah, I mean you _do_ have a pretty fit sister, mate,” Niall teases as if he and Doniya haven’t been dating for the past month.  “Can you blame me?” 

He waits for Doniya’s snarky response but it doesn’t come.  The girls must be on the other side of the deathtrap-- _er, pod_ \--because he can no longer hear them giggling like a couple of teenage girls. 

“Babe, open your eyes,” Harry encourages, sliding the hand on Zayn’s back underneath his shirt.  There’s something incredibly soothing about the feeling of Harry’s hand on his bare skin.  “Open your eyes.  There are so many beautiful things to see.”

Zayn takes a deep breath and does as he’s told.  “You’re right; there are.”  He reaches out to brush a lock of hair away from Harry’s eyes and is rewarded with a fond smile.  Zayn’s heart skips a beat, and it has nothing to do with the fact they’re 550 feet in the air this time.

Oh, sweet Jesus,” Niall whinges.  “I’m not sure how you managed to say that with a straight face, mate.”  He’s shaking his head in disgust, and Zayn can’t help but cackle at his reaction.

“Why don’t you go check out the bar and see how the girls are doing?” Harry suggests to his bandmate, eyes never leaving Zayn’s for a second.

“Think I will.  Bloody hell, I can’t take you two when you’re like this.”

“Sorry,” the couple giggles as Niall bolts off.  When they’re ‘alone,’ Harry reaches over and intertwines the fingers of his free hand with Zayn’s. 

“Happy birthday, baby,” Zayn murmurs.  Suddenly, he’s not afraid anymore.  He doesn’t even know why he was nervous in the first place, not with Harry by his side. 

He’s finally figured out that life’s not simply about winning--not really, anyway.  He takes a moment to look around at the people who are here with him, friends and family who care about him.  If that isn’t winning, then he doesn’t know what is.

And when Zayn looks back at Harry, he can’t help but think he’s hit the fucking jackpot.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
